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Hutchinson + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + .side { float: right; font-size: 75%; width: 25%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; margin-left: 0.8em; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Once Aboard The Lugger, by +Arthur Stuart-Menteth Hutchinson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Once Aboard The Lugger + +Author: Arthur Stuart-Menteth Hutchinson + + +Release Date: September, 2004 [EBook #6410] +This file was first posted on December 8, 2002 +Last Updated: March 15, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ONCE ABOARD THE LUGGER *** + + + + +Text file produced by Skip Doughty, Charles Aldarondo and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + ONCE ABOARD THE LUGGER— + </h1> + <h3> + THE HISTORY OF GEORGE AND HIS MARY + </h3> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By A. S. M. Hutchinson + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_TOC"> DETAILED CONTENTS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THE AUTHOR'S ADVERTISEMENT OF HIS NOVEL. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>BOOK I.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> <b>BOOK II.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> <b>BOOK III.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_NOTE"> Notes On The Building Of Bridges. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> <b>BOOK IV.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> <b>BOOK V.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER IX. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> <b>BOOK VI.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER X. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_TOC" id="link2H_TOC"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DETAILED CONTENTS. + </h2> + <div class="middle"> + The Author's Advertisement Of His Novel <br /> BOOK I. <br /> <i>Of George.</i> + <br /> I. Excursions In A Garden <br /> II. Excursions In Melancholy <br /> + III. Upon Modesty In Art: And Should Be Skipped <br /> IV. Excursions In A + Hospital <br /> V. Upon Life: And May Be Missed <br /> VI. Magnificent + Arrival Of A Heroine <br /> VII. Moving Passages With A Heroine <br /> VIII. + Astonishing After-Effects Of A Heroine <br /> BOOK II. <br /> <i>Of his + Mary.</i> <br /> I. Excursions In The Memory Of A Heroine <br /> II. + Excursions In Vulgarity <br /> III. Excursions In The Mind Of A Heroine + <br /> IV. Excursions In A Nursery <br /> V. Excursions At A Dinner-Table + <br /> BOOK III. <br /> <i>Of Glimpses at a Period of this History: Of Love + and of War.</i> <br /> I. Notes On The Building Of Bridges <br /> II. + Excursions Beneath The Bridge <br /> III. Excursions In Love <br /> IV. + Events And Sentiment Mixed In A Letter <br /> V. Beefsteak For 14 Palace + Gardens <br /> VI. A Cab For 14 Palace Gardens <br /> BOOK IV. <br /> <i>In + which this History begins to rattle.</i> <br /> I. The Author Meanders Upon + The Enduring Hills; And The Reader Will <br /> Lose Nothing By Not + Accompanying Him <br /> II. An Exquisite Balcony Scene; And Something About + Sausages <br /> III. Alarums And Excursions By Night <br /> IV. Mr. Marrapit + Takes A Nice Warm Bath <br /> V. Miss Porter Swallows A Particularly Large + Sweet <br /> VI. The Girl Comes Near The Lugger <br /> BOOK V. <br /> <i>Of + Mr. Marrapit upon the Rack: Of George in Torment.</i> <br /> I. Prosiness + Upon Events: So Uneventful That It Should Be Skipped <br /> II. Margaret + Fishes; Mary Prays <br /> III. Barley Water For Mr. Marrapit <br /> IV. The + Rape Of The Rose <br /> V. Horror At Herons' Holt <br /> VI. A Detective At + Herons' Holt <br /> VII. Terror At Dippleford Admiral <br /> VIII. Panic At + Dippleford Admiral <br /> IX. Disaster At Temple Colney <br /> BOOK VI. + <br /> <i>Of Paradise Lost and Found.</i> <br /> I. Mrs. Major Bids For + Paradise <br /> II. Mrs. Major Finds The Lock <br /> III. Mrs. Major Gets + The Key <br /> IV. George Has A Shot At Paradise <br /> V. Of Twin Cats: Of + Ananias And Of Sapphira <br /> VI. Agony In Meath Street <br /> VII. Mr. + William Wyvern In Meath Street <br /> VIII. Abishag The Shunamite In Meath + Street <br /> IX. Excursions In A Newspaper Office <br /> X. A Perfectly + Splendid Chapter <br /> <i>Last Shots from the Bridge</i> <br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE AUTHOR'S ADVERTISEMENT OF HIS NOVEL. + </h2> + <p> + This book has its title from that dashing sentiment, “Once aboard the + lugger and the girl is mine!” It is not to be read by those who in their + novels would have the entertainment of characters that are brilliant or + wealthy, noble of birth or admirable of spirit. Such have no place in this + history. There is a single canon of novel-writing that we have sedulously + kept before us in making this history, and that is the law which instructs + the novelist to treat only of the manner of persons with whom he is well + acquainted. Hence our characters are commonplace folks. We have the + acquaintance of none other than commonplace persons, because none other + than commonplace persons will have acquaintance with us. + </p> + <p> + And there are no problems in this history, nor is the reader to be tickled + by any risks taken with nice deportment. This history may be kept upon + shelves that are easily accessible. It is true that you will be invited to + spend something of a night in a lady's bedroom, but the matter is carried + through with circumspection and dispatch. There shall not be a blush. + </p> + <p> + Now, it is our purpose in this advertisement so clearly to give you the + manner of our novel that without further waste of time you may forego the + task of reading so little as a single chapter if you consider that manner + likely to distress you. Hence something must be said touching the style. + </p> + <p> + We cannot see (to make a start) that the listener or the reader of a story + should alone have the right to fidget as he listens or reads; to come and + go at his pleasure; to interrupt at his convenience. Something of these + privileges should be shared by the narrator; and in this history we have + taken them. You may swing your legs or divert your attention as you read; + but we too must be permitted to swing our legs and slide off upon matters + that interest us, and that indirectly are relevant to the history. Life is + not compounded solely of action. One cannot rush breathless from hour to + hour. And, since the novel aims to ape life, the reader, if the aim be + true, cannot rush breathless from page to page. We can at least warrant + him he will not here. + </p> + <p> + These are the limitations of our history; and we admit them to be + considerable. Upon the other hand, the print is beautifully clear. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + As touching the title we have chosen, this was not come by at the cost of + any labour. Taken, as we have told, from that dashing sentiment, “Once + aboard the lugger and the girl is mine!” it is a label that might be + applied to all novels. It is a generic title for all modern novels, since + there is not one of these but in this form or that sets out the pursuit of + his mistress by a man or his treatment of her when he has clapped her + beneath hatches. This is a notable matter. The novelist writes under the + influences and within the limitations of his age, and the modern novelist + correctly mirrors modern life when he presents woman as for man's pursuit + till he has her, and for what treatment he may will when he captures her. + The position is deplorable, is productive of a million wrongs, and, + happily, is slowly changing; but that it exists is clear upon the face of + our social existence, and is even advertised between the sexes in love: + “You are mine” the man says, and means it. “I am yours” the woman + declares, and, fruit of generations of dependence, freely, almost + involuntarily, gives herself. + </p> + <p> + But of this problem (upon which we could bore you to distraction) we are + nothing concerned in our novel. Truly we offer you the pursuit of a girl; + but my Mary would neither comprehend this matter nor wish to be other than + her George's. From page 57 she waves to us; let us hurry along. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>.... Who so will stake his lot, + Impelled thereto by nescience or whim, + Cupidity or innocence or not, + On Chance's colours, let men pray for him.</i> + RALPH HODGSON. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK I. + </h2> + <h3> + Of George. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <h3> + Excursions In A Garden. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + Mr. Christopher Marrapit is dozing in a chair upon the lawn; his darling + cat, the Rose of Sharon, is sleeping on his lap; stiffly beside him sits + Mrs. Major, his companion—that masterly woman. + </p> + <p> + As we approach to be introduced, it is well we should know something of + Mr. Marrapit. The nervous business of adventuring into an assembly of + strangers is considerably modified by having some knowledge of the first + we shall meet. We feel more at home; do not rush upon subjects which are + distasteful to that person, or of which he is ignorant; absorb something + of the atmosphere of the party during our exchange of pleasantries with + him; and, warmed by this feeling, with our most attractive charm of manner + are able to push among the remainder of our new friends. + </p> + <p> + Unhappily, the friendly chatter of the neighbourhood, which should supply + us with something of the character of a resident, is quite lacking at + Paltley Hill in regard to Mr. Marrapit. Mr. Marrapit rarely moves out + beyond the fine wall that encircles Herons' Holt, his residence; with + Paltley Hill society rarely mixes. The vicar, with something of a frown, + might tell us that to his divers parochial subscription lists Mr. Marrapit + has consistently, and churlishly, refused to give a shilling. Professor + Wyvern's son, Mr. William Wyvern, has been heard to say that Mr. Marrapit + always reminded him “of one of the minor prophets—shaved.” Beyond + this—and how little helpful it is!—Paltley Hill society can + give us nothing. + </p> + <p> + In a lower social grade of the district, however, much might be learned. + In the kitchens, the cottages, and the bar-parlours of Paltley Hill, Mr. + Marrapit is considerably discussed. Nicely mannered as we are, servants' + gossip concerning one in our own station of life is naturally distasteful + to us. At the same time it is essential to our ease on being introduced + that we should know something of this gentleman. Assuring ourselves, + therefore, that we shall not be prejudiced by cheap chatter, let us hear + what the kitchens, the cottages, and the bar-parlours have to say. + </p> + <p> + Let it, at least, be written down; we shall know how to value such stuff. + </p> + <p> + Material for this gossip, then, is brought into the kitchens, the + cottages, and the bar-parlours by Mr. Marrapit's domestic staff. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Armitage, his cook, has given tales of his “grimness” to the cottages + where her comfortable presence is welcomed on Sunday and Thursday + afternoons. She believes, however, that he must be a “religious + gentleman,” because (so she says) “he talks like out of the Bible.” + </p> + <p> + This would seem to bear out Mr. William Wyvern's allusion to the minor + prophet element of his character. + </p> + <p> + It is the habit of Clara and Ada, his maids, squeezing at the gate from + positions dangerous to modesty into which their ardent young men have + thrust them—it is their habit, thus placed, to excuse themselves + from indelicate embraces by telling alarming tales of Mr. Marrapit's + “carrying on” should they be late. He is a “fair old terror,” they say. + </p> + <p> + The testimony of Mr. Fletcher, his gardener, gloomy over his beer in the + bar-parlours, seems to support the “stinginess” that the vicar has + determined in Mr. Marrapit's character. Mr. Fletcher, for example, has + lugubriously shown what has to be put up with when in the service of a man + who had every inch of the grounds searched because a threepenny bit had + been dropped. “It's 'ard—damn 'ard,” Mr Fletcher said on that + occasion. “I'm a gardener, I am; not a treasure-'unter.” Murmurs of + sympathy chorused endorsement of this view. + </p> + <p> + Finally there are the words of Frederick, son of Mrs. Armitage, and + assistant to Fletcher, whose pleasure it is to set on end the touzled hair + of the youth of Paltley Hill by obviously exaggerated stories of Mr. + Marrapit's grim rule. + </p> + <p> + “'E's a tryant,” Frederick has said. + </p> + <p> + Such is an epitome of the kitchen gossip concerning Mr. Marrapit; it is + wholesome to be away from such tattling, and personally to approach the + lawn whereon its subject sits. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + This lawn, a delectable sight on this fine July afternoon, is set about + with wire netting to a height of some six feet. By the energies of Mr. + Fletcher and Frederick the sward is exquisitely trimmed and rolled; and + their labours join with the wire netting to make the lawn a safe and + pleasant exercise ground for Mr. Marrapit's cats. + </p> + <p> + Back in the days of Mr. Marrapit's first occupancy of Herons' Holt, this + man was a mighty amateur breeder of cats, and a rare army of cats + possessed. Regal cats he had, queenly cats, imperial neuter cats; blue + cats, grey cats, orange cats, and white cats—cats for which nothing + was too good, upon which too much money could not be spent nor too much + love be lavished. Latterly, with tremendous wrenchings of the heart, he + had disbanded this galaxy of cats. Changes in his household were partly + the cause of this step. The coming of his nephew, George, had seriously + upset the peaceful routine of existence which it was his delight to lead; + and a reason even more compelling was the gradual alteration in his + attitude towards his hobby. This man perceived that the fancier's eye with + which he regarded his darlings was becoming so powerful as to render his + lover's eye in danger of being atrophied. The fancier's eye was lit by the + brain—delighted only in “points,” in perfection of specimen; the + lover's eye was fed by the heart—glowed, not with pride over breed, + but with affection for cats as cats. And Mr. Marrapit realised that for + affection he was coming to substitute pride—that he was outraging + the animals he loved by neglecting the less admirable specimens for those + perfectly moulded; that even these perfect types he was abusing by his + growing craze for breeding; polygamy in cats, he came to believe, + desecrated and eventually destroyed their finer feelings. + </p> + <p> + Therefore—and the coming of his nephew George quickened his + determination—Mr. Marrapit dispersed his stud (the word had become + abhorrent to him), keeping only four exquisite favourites, of which the + Rose of Sharon—that perfect orange cat, listed when shown at the + prohibitive figure of 1000 pounds, envy and despair of every cat-lover in + Great Britain and America—was apple of his eye, joy of his + existence. + </p> + <p> + It was the resolve to keep but these four exquisite creatures that + encompassed the arrival in Mr. Marrapit's household of Mrs. Major, now + seated beside him upon the lawn—that masterly woman. The fine + cat-house was pulled down, the attendant dismissed. A room upon the ground + floor, having a southern aspect, was set apart as bed-chamber and + exclusive apartment for the four favourites, and Mr. Marrapit sought about + for some excellent person into whose care they might be entrusted. Their + feeding, their grooming, constant attention to their wants and the sole + care of their chamber, should be this person's duties, and it was not + until a point some way distant in this history that Mr. Marrapit ceased + daily to congratulate himself upon his selection. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major, that masterly woman, was a distressed gentlewoman. The death + of her husband, a warehouse clerk, by acute alcoholic poisoning, seems to + have given her her first chance of displaying those strong qualities which + ultimately became her chief characteristic. And she was of those to whom + plan of action comes instantly upon the arrival of opportunity. With + lightning rapidity this woman welded chance and action; with unflagging + energy and with dauntless perseverance used the powerful weapon thus + contrived. + </p> + <p> + The case of her husband's death may be instanced. Her hysterical distress + on the day of the funeral (a matter that would have considerably surprised + the late Mr. Major) was exchanged on the following morning for acute + physical distress resulting from the means by which, overnight, she had + tried to assuage her grief. Noticing, as she dressed, the subdued and + martyrlike air that her face wore, noticing also her landlady's evident + sympathy with the gentle voice and manner which her racking head caused + her to adopt, Mrs. Major saw at once the valuable aid to her future which + the permanent wearing of these characteristics might be. From that moment + she took up the role of distressed gentlewoman—advertised by + tight-fitting black, by little sighs, and by precise, subdued voice,—and + in this guise sought employment at an Agency. The agency sent her to be + interviewed by Mr. Marrapit. Ushered into the study, she, in a moment of + masterly inspiration, murmured “The sweet! Ah, the sweet!” when viciously + scratched by the Rose of Sharon, and upon those words walked directly in + to Mr. Marrapit's heart. + </p> + <p> + He required a lady—a <i>lady</i> (Mrs. Major smiled deprecatingly) + who should devote herself to his cats. Did Mrs. Major like cats? Ah, sir, + she adored cats; her late husband—Words, at the recollection, failed + her. She faltered; touched an eye with her handkerchief; wanly smiled with + the resigned martyrdom of a true gentlewoman. + </p> + <p> + As so-often in this life, the unspoken word was more powerful than + mightiest eloquence. Mr. Marrapit is not to be blamed for the inference he + drew. He pictured the dead Mr. Major a gentleman sharing with his wife a + passion for cats; by memory of which fond trait his widow's devotion to + the species would be yet further enhanced, would be hallowed. + </p> + <p> + There is the further thought in this connection that once more, as so + often in this life, the unspoken word had saved the lie direct. Once only, + in point of fact, had Mrs. Major seen her late husband directly occupied + with a cat, and the occasion had been the cause of their vacating their + lodgings in Shepherd's Bush precisely thirty minutes later. Mr. Major, + under influence of his unfortunate malady, with savage foot had sped the + landlady's cat down a flight of stairs; and the landlady had taken the + matter in peculiarly harsh spirit. + </p> + <p> + All this, however, lay deeply hidden beneath Mrs. Major's unspoken word. + The vision of a gentle Mr. Major that Mr. Marrapit conjured sealed the + liking he had immediately taken to Mrs. Major, and thus was she installed. + </p> + <p> + The masterly woman, upon this July afternoon, desisted from her + crocheting; observed in the dozing figure beside her signs of movement; + turned to it, ready for speech. + </p> + <p> + This she saw. From the reluctant rays of a passing sun a white silk + handkerchief protected a nicely polished head—a little bumpy, + fringed with soft white hair. Beneath the head a long face, sallow of hue; + in either cheek a pit; between them a dominating nose carrying eyeglasses. + A long, spare body in an alpaca coat; long thin legs; brown morocco + slippers without heels—upon the lap the peerless Rose of Sharon. + </p> + <p> + “Time for the Rose to go in,” Mrs. Major softly suggested. + </p> + <p> + “The Rose,” said Mr. Marrapit, passing a hand gently over the creature's + exquisite form, “is, I fear, still ailing. Her sleep is troubled; she + shivers. Her appetite?” + </p> + <p> + “It is still poorly.” The expression was that of a true distressed + gentlewoman. + </p> + <p> + “She has need,” Mr. Marrapit said, “of the most careful attention, of the + most careful dieting. Tend her. Tempt her. Take her.” + </p> + <p> + “I will, Mr. Marrapit.” Mrs. Major gathered the Rose against her bosom. + “You will not stay long? It is growing chilly.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall take a brief stroll. I am perturbed concerning the Rose.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me bring you a cap, Mr. Marrapit.” + </p> + <p> + “Unnecessary. Devote yourself, I pray, to the Rose. I am anxious. Nothing + could console me should any evil thing come upon her. I am apprehensive. I + look to you. I will take a stroll.” + </p> + <p> + Outside the wire fence Mr. Marrapit and Mrs. Major parted. The masterly + woman glided swiftly towards the house; Mr. Marrapit, with bent head, + passed thoughtfully along an opposite path. + </p> + <p> + And immediately the sleeping garden awoke to sudden activity. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + First to break covert was Frederick, Mr. Fletcher's assistant. Abnormally + steeped in vice for one so young (this wretched boy was but fourteen), + with the coolness of a matured evil-doer Frederick extinguished his + cigarette-end by pressing it against his boot-heel; dropped it amongst + other ends, toilsomely collected, in a tin box; placed the box in its + prepared hole; covered this with earth and leaves; hooked a basket of + faded weeds upon his arm, and so appeared in Mr. Marrapit's path with bent + back, diligently searching. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit inquired: “Your task?” + </p> + <p> + “Weedin',” said Frederick. + </p> + <p> + “Weeding what?” + </p> + <p> + “Weeds,” Frederick told him, a little surprised. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit rapped sharply: “Say 'sir'.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said Frederick, making to move. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit peered at the basket. “You have remarkably few.” + </p> + <p> + “There ain't never many,” Frederick said with quiet pride—“there + ain't never many if you keep 'em down by always doin' your job.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit pointed: “They grow thick at your feet, sir!” + </p> + <p> + In round-eyed astonishment Frederick peered low. “They spring up the + minute your back's turned, them weeds. They want a weed destroyer what you + pours out of a can.” + </p> + <p> + “You are the weed-destroyer,” Mr. Marrapit said sternly. “Be careful. It + is very true that they spring up whenever <i>my</i> back is turned. Be + careful.” He passed on. + </p> + <p> + “Blarst yer back,” murmured Frederick, bending his own to the task. + </p> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <p> + A few yards further Mr. Marrapit again paused. Against a laurel bush stood + a pair of human legs, the seat of whose encasing trousers stared gloomily + upwards at the sky. With a small twig he carried Mr. Marrapit tapped the + seat. Three or four raps were necessary; slowly it straightened into line + with the legs; from the abyss of the bush a back, shoulders, head, + appeared. + </p> + <p> + Just as the ostrich with buried head believes itself hid from observation, + so it was with Mr. Fletcher, needing peace, a habit to plunge head and + shoulders into a bush and there remain—showing nothing against the + sky-line. Long practice had freed the posture from irksomeness. As a young + man Mr. Fletcher had been employed in a public tennis-court, and there had + learned the little mannerism to which he now had constant resort. In those + days the necessity of freeing himself from the constant annoyance of nets + to be tightened, or of disputes between rival claims to courts to be + settled, had driven him to devise some means of escape. It was essential + to the safety of his post, upon the other hand, that he must never allow + it to be said that he was constantly absent from his duties. Chance gave + him the very means he sought. Bent double into a bush one day, searching a + tennis ball, he heard his name bawled up and down the courts; he did not + stir. Those who were calling him stumbled almost against his legs; did not + observe him; passed on calling. Thereafter, when unduly pressed, it became + Mr. Fletcher's habit to bury head and arms in a bush either until the hue + and cry for him had lulled, or until exasperated searchers knocked against + his stern; in the latter event he would explain that he was looking for + tennis balls. + </p> + <p> + The habit had persisted. Whenever irritated or depressed (and this man's + temperament caused such often to be his fate), he would creep to the most + likely bush and there disappear as to his upper half. It is a fine thing + in this turbulent life thus to have some quiet refuge against the + snarlings of adversity. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Fletcher drew up now and faced Mr. Marrapit; in his hand a snail. + </p> + <p> + He said gloomily: “Another one”; held it towards his master's face. + </p> + <p> + Here is an example of how one deception leads to another. This was no + fresh snail; often before Mr. Marrapit had seen it. To lend motive to his + concealment Mr. Fletcher carried always with him this same snail; needing + peace he would draw it from his pocket; plunge to consolation; upon + discovery exhibit it as excuse. + </p> + <p> + “There is an abominable smell here,” said Mr. Marrapit. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Fletcher inhaled laboriously. “It's not for me to say what it is.” + </p> + <p> + “Adjust that impression. Yours is the duty. You are in charge here. What + is it?” + </p> + <p> + “It's them damn cats.” + </p> + <p> + “You are insolent, sir. Your insolence increases. It grows unendurable.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Fletcher addressed the snail. “He asts a question. I beg not to answer + it. He insists. I tell him. I'm insolent.” He sighed; the tyranny of the + world pressed heavily upon this man. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit advertised annoyance by clicks of his tongue: “You are + insolent when you swear in my presence. You are insolent when you impute + to my cats a fault that is not theirs.” + </p> + <p> + “I ain't blamin' the cats. It's natural to them. Whenever the wind sets + this way I notice it. It's blamin' me I complain of. I don't draw the + smell. I try to get away from it. It's 'ard—damn 'ard. I'm a + gardener, I am; not a wind-shaft.” + </p> + <p> + Whenever Mr. Marrapit had occasion to speak with Mr. Fletcher, after the + first few exchanges he would swallow with distinct effort. It was wrath he + swallowed; and bitter as the pill was, rarely did he fail to force it + down. Mr. Fletcher spoke to him as no other member of his establishment + dared speak. The formula of dismissal would leap to Mr. Marrapit's mouth: + knowledge of the unusually small wage for which Mr. Fletcher worked caused + it to be stifled ere it found tongue. Thousands of inferiors have daily to + bow to humiliations from their employers; it is an encouraging thought for + this army that masters there be who, restrained by parsimony, daily writhe + beneath impertinences from valuable, ill-paid servants. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit swallowed. He said: “To the smell of which I complain my cats + are no party. It is tobacco. The air reeks of tobacco. I will not have + tobacco in my garden.” + </p> + <p> + Twice, with a roaring sound, Mr. Fletcher inhaled. He pointed towards an + elm against the wall: “It comes from over there.” + </p> + <p> + “Ascertain.” + </p> + <p> + The gardener plunged through the bushes; nosed laboriously; his + inhalations rasped across the shrubs. “There's no smoking here,” he + called. + </p> + <p> + “Someone, in some place concealed, indubitably smokes. Yourself you have + noticed it. Follow the scent.” + </p> + <p> + Exertion beaded upon Mr. Fletcher's brow. He drew his hand across it; + thrust a damp and gloomy face between the foliage towards his master. + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to know,” he asked, “if this is to be one of my regular jobs for + the future? Was I engaged to 'unt smells all day? It's 'ard-damn 'ard. I'm + a gardener, I am; not a blood-'ound.” + </p> + <p> + But Mr. Marrapit had passed on. + </p> + <p> + “Damn 'ard,” Mr. Fletcher repeated; drew the snail from his pocket; + plunged to consolation. + </p> + <h3> + V. + </h3> + <p> + A short distance down the garden Mr. Marrapit himself discovered the + source of the smell that had offended him. Bending to the left he came + full upon it where it uprose from a secluded patch of turf: from the + remains of a pipe there mounted steadily through the still air a thin wisp + of smoke. + </p> + <p> + Outraged, Mr. Marrapit stared; fuming, turned upon the step that sounded + on the path behind him. + </p> + <p> + The slim and tall young man who approached was that nephew George, whose + coming into Mr. Marrapit's household had considerably disturbed Mr. + Marrapit's peace. Orphaned by the death of his mother, George had gone + into the guardianship of his uncle while in his middle teens. The + responsibility had been thrust upon Mr. Marrapit by his sister. Vainly he + had writhed and twisted in fretful protest; she shackled him to her desire + by tearful and unceasing entreaty. Vainly he urged that his means were not + what she thought; she assured him—and by her will bore out the + assurance—that with her George should go her money. + </p> + <p> + And the will, when read, in some degree consoled Mr. Marrapit for the + sniffling encumbrance he took back with him to Herons' Holt after the + funeral. It was a simple and trustful will—commended George into the + keeping of her brother Christopher Marrapit; desired that George should be + entered in her late husband's—the medical—profession; and for + that purpose bequeathed her all to the said brother. + </p> + <p> + George was eighteen when Mr. Marrapit entered him at St. Peter's Hospital + in mild pursuit of the qualification of the Conjoint Board of Surgeons and + Physicians. “I am entering you,” Mr. Marrapit had said, consulting notes + he had prepared against the interview—“I am entering you at enormous + cost upon a noble career which involves, however, a prolonged and highly + expensive professional training. Your mother wished it.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit did not add that George's mother had expressly paid for it. + This man had the knowledge that Youth would lose such veneration for + Authority as it may possess were Authority to disclose the motives that + prompt its actions. + </p> + <p> + He continued: “For me this involves considerable self-denial and patience. + I do not flinch. From you it demands unceasing devotion to your books, + your studies, your researches. You are no longer a boy: you are a man. The + idle sports of youth must be placed behind you. Stern life must be sternly + faced.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not flinch,” George had replied. + </p> + <p> + “For your personal expenses I shall make you a small allowance. You will + live in my house. Your wants should be insignificant.” + </p> + <p> + In a faint voice George squeezed in: “I have heard that one can work far + better by living near the hospital in digs.” + </p> + <p> + “Elucidate.” + </p> + <p> + “Digs—lodgings. I have heard that one can work far better by living + near the hospital in lodgings.” + </p> + <p> + “Adjust that impression,” Mr. Marrapit had told him. “You are + misinformed.” + </p> + <p> + George struggled: “I should have the constant companionship of men + absorbed in the same work as myself. We could exchange views and notes in + the evenings.” + </p> + <p> + “In your books seek that companionship. With them compare your views. Let + your notes by them be checked. They are infallible.” + </p> + <p> + George said no more. At that moment the freedom of hospital as against the + restraint of school, was a gallant steed upon which he outrid all other + desires. The prospect of new and strange books in exchange for those he so + completely abhorred, was an alluring delight. It is not until the bargain + is complete that we discover how much easier to polish, and more + comfortable to handle, are old lamps than new. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit had referred to his notes: “In regard to the allowance I + shall make you. I earnestly pray no spur may be necessary to urge you at + your tasks. Yet, salutary it is that spur should exist. I arrange, + therefore, that in the deplorable event of your failing to pass any + examination your allowance shall be diminished.” + </p> + <p> + “Will it be correspondingly increased when I pass first shot?” + </p> + <p> + The fearful possibilities of this suggestion Mr. Marrapit had hesitated to + accept. Speculation was abhorrent to this man. Visions of success upon + success demanding increase upon increase considerably agitated him. Upon + the other hand, the sooner these successes were won, the sooner, he + reflected, would he be rid of this incubus, and, in the long-run, the + cheaper. He nerved himself to the decision. “I agree to that,” he had + said. “The compact is affirmed.” + </p> + <p> + It was a wretched compact for George. + </p> + <p> + But the sum had not yet been fixed. George, standing opposite his uncle, + twisted one leg about the other; twined his clammy hands; put the awful + question: “By how much will the allowance be increased or cut down?” + </p> + <p> + “By two pounds a quarter.” + </p> + <p> + George plunged: “So if I fail in my first exam. I shall get eleven pounds + at the quarter? if I pass, fifteen?” + </p> + <p> + Horror widened Mr. Marrapit's eyes; shrilled his voice: “What is the + colossal sum you anticipate?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you said fifty-two pounds a year-a pound a week.” + </p> + <p> + “A monstrous impression. Adjust it. Four pounds a quarter is the sum. You + will have no needs. It errs upon the side of liberality—I desire to + be liberal.” + </p> + <p> + George twisted his legs into a yet firmer knot: “But two failures would + wipe it bang out.” + </p> + <p> + “Look you to that,” Mr. Marrapit told him. “The matter is settled.” + </p> + <p> + But it was further pursued by George when outside the door. + </p> + <p> + “Simply to spite that stingy brute,” vowed he, “I'll pass all my exams, + with such a rush that I'll be hooking sixteen quid a quarter out of him + before he knows where he is. I swear I will.” + </p> + <p> + It was a rash oath. When Youth selects as weapon against Authority some + implement that requires sweat in the forging Authority may go unarmed. The + task of contriving such weapons is early abandoned. In three months + George's hot resolve was cooled; in six it was forgotten; at the end of + three years, after considerable fluctuation, his allowance stood at minus + two pounds for the ensuing quarter. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit, appealed to for advance, had raved about his study with + waving arms. + </p> + <p> + “The continued strain of renewing examination fees consequent on your + callous failures,” he had said, “terrifies me. I am haunted by the spectre + of ruin. The Bank of England could not stand it.” + </p> + <p> + Still George argued. + </p> + <p> + With a whirlwind of words Mr. Marrapit drove him from the study: “Precious + moments fly even as you stand here. To your books, sir. In them seek + solace. By application to them refresh your shattered pocket.” + </p> + <p> + Shamefully was the advice construed. George sought and found solace in his + books by selling his Kirke, his Quain and his Stone to Mr. Schoole of the + Charing Cross Road; his microscope he temporarily lodged with Mr. Maughan + in the Strand; to the science of bridge he applied himself with a skill + that served to supply his petty needs. + </p> + <p> + Notwithstanding, his career at St. Peter's was of average merit. George + was now in the sixth year of his studies; and by the third part of his + final examination, was alone delayed from the qualification which would + bring him freedom from his uncle's irksome rule. + </p> + <h3> + VI. + </h3> + <p> + His attempt at this last examination had been concluded upon this July day + that opens our history, and thus we return to Mr. Marrapit, to George, and + to the line of smoke uprising from the tobacco. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit indicated the smouldering wedge. + </p> + <p> + George bent forward. “Tobacco,” he announced. + </p> + <p> + “My nose informed me. My eyes affirm. Yours?” + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid so.” + </p> + <p> + “My simple rule. In the vegetable garden you may smoke; here you may not. + Is it so hard to observe?” + </p> + <p> + “I quite forgot myself.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit cried: “Adjust that impression. You forgot me. Consistently + you forget me. My desires, my interests are nothing to you.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a rotten thing to make a fuss about.” + </p> + <p> + “That is why I make a fuss. It <i>is</i> a rotten thing. A disgusting and + a noisome thing. Bury it.” + </p> + <p> + Into a bed of soft mould George struck a sullen heel; kicked the tobacco + towards the pit. Mr. Marrapit chanted over the obsequies: “I provide you + with the enormous expanse of my vegetable garden in which to smoke. Yet + upon my little acre you intrude. I am Naboth.” + </p> + <p> + Ahab straightened his back; sighed heavily. Naboth started against the + prick of a sudden recollection: + </p> + <p> + “I had forgotten. Your examination?” + </p> + <p> + George half turned away. The bitterest moment of a sad day was come. He + growled: + </p> + <p> + “Pipped.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Pipped?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Pilled.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Pilled?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Spun.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Spun?”</i> + </p> + <p> + “Three months.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit put his hands to his head: “I shall go mad. My brain reels + beneath these conundrums. I implore English.” + </p> + <p> + The confession of defeat is a thousandfold more bitter when made to unkind + ears. George paled a little; spoke very clearly: “I failed. I was referred + for three months.” + </p> + <p> + “I am Job,” groaned Mr. Marrapit. “I expected this. The strain is + unendurable. It is unnatural. The next chance shall be your last. What is + the fee for re-examination?” + </p> + <p> + “Five guineas.” + </p> + <p> + “My God!” said Mr. Marrapit. + </p> + <p> + He tottered away up the path. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <h3> + Excursions In Melancholy. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + Gloom brooded over Herons' Holt that evening. Gloom hung thickly about the + rooms: blanketed conversation; veiled eyes that might have sparkled; + choked appetites. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless this was an atmosphere in which one member of the household + felt most comfortable. + </p> + <p> + Margaret, Mr. Marrapit's only child, was nineteen; of sallow complexion, + petite, pretty; with large brown eyes in which sat always a constant quest—an + entreaty, a wistful yearning. + </p> + <p> + Hers was a clinging nature, readily responsive to the attraction of any + stouter mind. Enthusiasm was in this girl, but it lay well-like—not + as a spring. To stir it the influence of another was wanted; of itself, + spontaneous, it could not leap. Aroused, there was no rush and surge of + emotion—it welled, rose deeply; thickly, without ripple; crestless, + flinging no intoxicating spume. Waves rush triumphant, hurtling forward + the stick they support: the pool swells, leaving the stick quiescent, + floating. + </p> + <p> + Many persons have this order of enthusiasm; it is a clammy thing to + attract. A curate with a glimpse at Shelley's mind once roused Margaret's + enthusiasm for the poet. It welled so suffocatingly about him that he came + near to damning Shelley and all his works; threw up his hat when + opportunity put out a beckoning finger and drew him elsewhere. + </p> + <p> + Margaret walked in considerable fear of her father; but she clung to him + despite his oppressive foibles, because this was her nature. She loved + church; incense; soft music; a prayer-book tastefully bound. She “wrote + poetry.” + </p> + <p> + Warmed by the gloom that lay over Herons' Holt upon this evening, she sat + brooding upon her cousin George's failure until a beautiful picture was + hatched. He had gone to his room directly after dinner; during the meal + had not spoken. She imagined him seated on his bed, hands deep in pockets, + chin sunk, brow knitted, wrestling with that old devil despair. She knew + that latterly he had worked tremendously hard. He had told her before the + examination how confident of success he was, had revealed how much in the + immediate prospect of freedom he gloried. She recalled his gay laugh as he + had bade her good-bye on the first day, and the recollection stung her + just as, she reflected, it must now be stinging him.... Only he must a + thousand times more fiercely be feeling the burn of its venom.... + </p> + <p> + Margaret moved impatiently with a desire to shake into herself a + profounder sense of her cousin's misfortune. By ten she was plunged in a + most pleasing melancholy. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + She was of those who are by nature morbid; who deceive themselves if they + imagine they have enjoyment from the recreations that provoke lightness of + heart in the majority. Only the surface of their spirits ripples under + such breezes; to stir the whole, to produce the counterpart of a hearty + laugh in your vigorous animal, a feast on melancholy must be provided. + This is a quality that is common among the lower classes who find their + greatest happiness in funerals. The sombre trappings; white handkerchiefs + against black dresses; tears; the mystery of gloom—these trickle + with a warm glow through all their senses. They are as aroused by grief, + unpleasant to the majority, as the drunkard is quickened by wine, to many + abhorrent. + </p> + <p> + Thus it was with Margaret, and to her the shroud of melancholy in which + she was now wrapped brought an added boon—arrayed in it she was best + able to make her verses. Not of necessity sad little verses; many of her + brightest were conceived in profoundest gloom. With a pang at the heart + she could be most merry—tinkling out her laughing little lines just + as martyrs could breathe a calm because, rather than spite of, they were + devilishly racked. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + But this was no hour for tinkling lines. A manuscript returned by the last + post emphasised her gloom. + </p> + <p> + Kissing her father good-night, Margaret crept to her room, aching with + desire to write. + </p> + <p> + She undressed, read a portion of the <i>Imitation</i>, then to her table + by the open window. + </p> + <p> + Two hours brought relief. Margaret placed her poem in an envelope against + its presentation to George in the morning, then from her window leaned. + </p> + <p> + From her thoughts at once George sped; they rushed across the sleeping + fields to cling about the person of that Mr. William Wyvern who had spoken + of Mr. Marrapit as reminding him of a minor prophet—shaved. This was + Margaret's nightly practice, but to-night this girl was most exquisitely + melancholy, and with melancholy her thoughts of her William were tinged. + She had not seen him that day; and now she brooded upon the bitter + happening that had forced all her meetings with her lover to be snatched—fugitive, + secret. + </p> + <p> + For Mr. William Wyvern was not allowed at Herons' Holt. When love first + sent its herald curiosity into William's heart, the young man had sought + to relieve its restlessness by a visit ostensibly on George, really upon + Margaret, and extremely ill-advised in that at his heels gambolled his + three bull-terriers. + </p> + <p> + Korah, Dathan, and Abiram these were named, and they were abrupt dogs to a + point reaching brusqueness. + </p> + <p> + At the door, as William had approached, beamed Mr. Marrapit; upon the + drive the queenly Rose of Sharon sat; and immediately tragedy swooped. + </p> + <p> + The dogs sighted the Rose. Red-mouthed the shining pack flew at her. + Dignity fell before terror: wildly, with streaming tail, she fled. + </p> + <p> + Orange was the cat, white the dogs: like some orange and snow-white ribbon + magically inspired, thrice at enormous speed they set a belt about the + house. With tremendous bounds the Rose kept before her pursuers—heavily + labouring, horrid with thirsty glee. Impotent in the doorway moaned Mr. + Marrapit, his dirge rushing up to a wail of grief each time the + parti-coloured ribbon flashed before his eyes. + </p> + <p> + With Mr. Fletcher the end had come. Working indoors, aroused by the din, + the gardener burst out past his master just as the ribbon fluttered into + sight upon the completion of its fourth circuit. Like a great avalanche it + poured against his legs; as falls the oak, so pressed he fell. + </p> + <p> + Each eager jaw snapped once. Korah bit air, Dathan the cat's right ear. + She wrenched; freed; sprang high upon the porch to safety, blood on her + coat. + </p> + <p> + Abiram put a steely nip upon Mr. Fletcher's right buttock. + </p> + <p> + William called off his dogs; stood aghast. Mr. Marrapit stretched + entreating arms to his adored. Mr. Fletcher writhed prone. + </p> + <p> + The torn Rose slipped to Mr. Marrapit's bosom. Clasping her he turned upon + William—“You shall pay for this blood!” + </p> + <p> + William stammered: “I'm very sorry, sir. If—” + </p> + <p> + “Never again enter my gates. I'll have your curs shot!” + </p> + <p> + Curs was unfortunate; the evil three were whelped of a mighty strain. + </p> + <p> + “If your fool of a man hadn't got in the way, the cat would have escaped,” + William hotly cried. Indignant he turned. Banishment was nothing then; in + time it came to be a bitter thing. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit had raged on to Mr. Fletcher, yet writhing. + </p> + <p> + “You hear that?” he had cried. “Dolt! You are responsible for this!” He + touched the blood-flecked side, the abrased ear; clasped close the Rose; + called for warm water. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Fletcher clapped a hand to his wound as shakily he rose. + </p> + <p> + “I go to rescue his cat!” he said; “I'm near worried to death by 'ounds. + I'm a dolt. I'm responsible. It's 'ard,—damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I + am; not a dog muzzle.” + </p> + <p> + A dimness clouded Margaret's beautiful eyes as this bitter picture—she + had watched it—was again reviewed. She murmured “Oh, Bill!”; + stretched her soft arms to the night; moved her pretty lips in a message + to her lover; snuggled between the sheets and made melancholy her + bedfellow. + </p> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <p> + By seven she was up and in the fresh garden. George was before her. + </p> + <p> + She cried brightly: “Why, how early you are!” and ran to him—very + pretty in her white dress: at her breast a rose, the poem fluttering in + her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; for once before you.” + </p> + <p> + George's tone did not give back her mood, purposely keyed high. She played + on it again: “Turning a new leaf?” + </p> + <p> + He drummed at the turf with his heel: “Yes—for to-day.” He threw out + a hand towards her: “But in the same old book. I've had eight—nine + years of it, and now there are three more months.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor George! But only three months, think how they will fly!” + </p> + <p> + He was desperately gloomy: “I haven't your imagination. Each single day of + them will mean a morning—here; a night—here.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, is it so hard?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, now. It's pretty deadly now. You know, when I wasn't precisely + killing myself with overwork, I didn't mind so much. When it was three or + four years, anyway, before I could possibly be free, a few extra months or + so through failing an exam, didn't trouble me. But this is different. I + was right up against getting clear of all this”—he comprehended + garden and house in a sweep of the hand—“counted it a dead certainty—and + here I am pitched back again.” + </p> + <p> + “But, George, you did work so hard this time. It isn't as though you had + to blame yourself.” She put a clinging hand into his arm. “You can suffer + no—remorse. That is what makes failure so dreadful—the + knowledge that things might have been otherwise if one had liked.” + </p> + <p> + George laughed quite gaily. Gloom never lay long upon this young man. + </p> + <p> + “You're a sweet little person,” he said. “You ought to be right, but you + are wrong. When I didn't work I didn't mind failing. It's when I've tried + that I get sick.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret's eyes brightened. There was melancholy here. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know what you mean. I know so well. I have felt that. You mean the—the + haunting fear that you may never be able to succeed; that you have not the—the + talent, the capacity.” She continued pleadingly: “Oh, you mustn't think + that. You can—you <i>will</i> succeed next time, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Rather!” responded George brightly. + </p> + <p> + Margaret was quite pained. She would have had him express doubt, + despondently sigh; would have heartened him with her poem. The confident + “rather!” jarred. She hurried from its vigour. + </p> + <p> + She asked: “What had you intended to do?” + </p> + <p> + “I was to have got a <i>locum tenens</i>. I think it would have developed + into a permanency. A big, rough district up in Yorkshire with a man who + keeps six horses going. His second assistant—a pal of mine—wants + to chuck it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Oh, partly because he's fed up with it, partly because he wants a + practice of his own.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! ... But, George, don't you want a practice of your own? You don't + want to be another man's assistant, do you?” + </p> + <p> + George laughed. “I can't choose, Margi. You know, if you imagine there are + solid groups of people all over England anxiously praying for the arrival + of a doctor, you must adjust that impression, as your father would say. + These things have to be bought. I've got about three pounds, so I'm not + bidding. They seldom go so cheap.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret never bantered. She had no battledore light enough to return an + airy shuttlecock. Now, as always, when this plaything came buoyantly + towards her she swiped it with heavy force clean out of the conversational + field. + </p> + <p> + She said gravely: “Ah, I know what you mean. You mean that father ought to + buy you a practice—ought to set you up when you are qualified. I + can't discuss that, can I? It wouldn't be loyal.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not. I don't ask you.” + </p> + <p> + They moved towards the sound of the breakfast bell. + </p> + <p> + “You think,” Margaret continued, “that father ought to buy you a practice + because your mother left him money for the purpose?” + </p> + <p> + “I know she left him nearly five thousand pounds for my education and all + that. I think I may have cost him three thousand, possibly four—<i>so</i> + I think I am entitled to something, <i>but</i> I shan't get it, <i>therefore</i> + I don't worry. My hump is gone; in three months I shall be gone. Forward: + I smell bacon!” + </p> + <p> + Margaret smiled the wan smile of an invalid watching vigorous youth at + sport. Firmly she banged the shuttlecock out of sight. + </p> + <p> + “How bright you are!” she told him. “Look, here is a little poem I wrote + for you last night. It's about failure and success. Don't read it now.” + </p> + <p> + George was very fond of his cousin. “Oh, but I must!” he cried. “I think + this was awfully nice of you. He's not down yet. Let's sit on this seat + and read it together.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, not aloud. It's a silly little thing—really.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—aloud.” + </p> + <p> + He smoothed the paper. She pressed against him; thrilled as she regarded + the written lines. George begged her read. She would not—well, she + would. She paused. Modesty and pride gathered on her cheeks, tuned her + voice low. She read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “So you have tried—So you have known + The burning effort for success, + The quick belief in your own prowess and your skill, + The bitterness of failure, and the joy + Of sweet success.” + </pre> + <p> + “'Burning effort,'” George said. “That's fine!” + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad you like that. And 'quick belief'—you know what I mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, rather.” + </p> + <p> + The poet warmed again over her words. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “So you have tried— + So you have known + The blind-eyed groping towards the goal + That flickers on the far horizon of Attempt, + Gleaming to sudden vividness, anon + Fading from sight.” + </pre> + <p> + “Sort of blank verse, isn't it?” George asked. + </p> + <p> + “Well, sort of,” the poet allowed. “Not exactly, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not,” George agreed firmly. + </p> + <p> + Margaret breathed the next fine lines. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “So you have tried— + So you have known + The bitter-sweetness of Attempt, + The quick determination and the dread despair + That grapple and possess you as you strive + For imagery.” + </pre> + <p> + George questioned: “Imagery...?” + </p> + <p> + “That verse is more for me than you,” the poet explained. “'For imagery'—to + get the right word, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Rather!” said George. “It does for me too—in exams, when one is + floored, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Margaret admitted doubtfully. “Ye-es. Don't interrupt between the + verses, dear.” + </p> + <p> + Now emotion swelled her voice. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Success be yours! + May you achieve + To heights you do not dream you'll ever touch; + The power's to your hand, the road before you lies— + Forward! The gods not always frown; anon + They'll kindly smile.” + </pre> + <p> + “Why, that's splendid!” George cried. He put a cousinly arm about the + poet; squeezed her to him. “Fancy you writing that for me! What a + sympathetic little soul you are—and how clever!” + </p> + <p> + Breathless she disengaged herself: “I'm so glad you like it. It's a silly + little thing—but it's <i>real</i>, isn't it? Come, there's father.” + </p> + <p> + She paused against denial of the poem's silliness, affirmation of its + truth; but George, moody beneath Mr. Marrapit's eye, glinting behind the + window, had moved forward. + </p> + <p> + Margaret thrust the paper in her bosom, tucked in where heart might warm + against heart's child. Constantly during breakfast her mind reverted to + it, drummed its rare lines. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <h3> + Upon Modesty In Art: And Should Be Skipped. + </h3> + <p> + Yet Margaret had called her poem silly. Here, then, was mock-modesty by + diffidence seeking praise. But this mock-modesty, which horribly abounds + to-day, is only natural product of that furious modesty which has come to + be expected in all the arts. + </p> + <p> + Modesty should have no place in true art. The author or the painter, the + poet or the composer should be impersonal to his work. That which he + creates is not his; it is a piece of the art to which he is servant, and + as such (and such alone) he should regard it. His in the making and the + moulding, thereafter it becomes the possession of the great whole to which + it belongs. If it adorns that whole he may freely admire it; for he is + impersonal to it. + </p> + <p> + Unquestionably (or unconsciously) we accept this principle in regard to + human life. The child belongs not to the mother who conceived it but to + the race of which it is an atom. It hinders or it betters the race. The + race judges it. By the race it is honoured or condemned; and to it the + mother becomes impersonal. As it bears itself among its fellows, so she + judges it—as the artist's work bears itself in the great art it + joins, so should he judge it. And if the mother joins in his fellows' + praise of her child, and if she proclaims her pride in it, is she called + wanting in modesty?—and if the artist joins in praise of his work, + and if he freely names it good, must he then be vain, boastful? The race + grants that the mother who gave it this specimen of its kind has a first + right to show her pride—to the artist who gives a fair specimen to + his art we should allow a like voice. + </p> + <p> + For in demanding modesty—in naming impersonality conceit—we + have produced also mock-modesty; and because, as a people, we have little + appreciation of the arts, hence little knowledge, hence no standard by + which to judge, we continually mistake the one form of modesty for the + other. Modesty we suspect to be mock-modesty, and mock-modesty we take to + be pleasing humility. + </p> + <p> + Coming to literature alone, the author should be impersonal to his work + and must not cry that the writer is no judge of his own labour. Letters is + his trade; and just as the mason well knows whether the brick he has laid + helps or hinders, beautifies or insults the house, so the writer should be + full cognisant whether his work helps make or does mar the edifice called + literature. Nor must the term literature be denied to the ruck of modern + writing. All that is written to interest or to instruct goes to make the + literature of our day. We have introduced new expressions just as we have + contrived new expressions in architecture; and as in the latter case so in + the former the bulk of these is ephemeral. Nevertheless they are a part of + literature, and all efforts in them better or sully the pages which in our + day we are adding to the book of literature. From this book the winds of + cycles to come will blow all that is unworthy—only the stout leaves + will endure; but, no less because you write for the supplement than if you + have virtue sufficient for the bound volume, remember that in every form + of writing there are standards of good, and that every line printed helps + raise or does tarnish the letters of our day. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <h3> + Excursions In A Hospital. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + By the half-past nine train George went to town; an hour later was at St. + Peter's. + </p> + <p> + From the bar of the Students' Club a throng of young men of his year + loudly hailed him. He joined them; took with a laugh the commiserations on + his failure; wrung the hands of those who had been successful. + </p> + <p> + The successful young gentlemen were standing drinks-each man his round. + There was much smoke and much laughter. Amusing experiences were narrated. + You gathered that all who had passed their examination had done so by + sheer luck, by astonishing flukes. Not one had ever worked. Each had been + “ragged” on a subject of which he knew absolutely nothing. To the + brilliancy with which he had gulled or bluffed his examiner, to the + diplomacy with which he had headed him off the matters of which he knew + absolutely less than nothing-to these alone were his success due. + </p> + <p> + Such is ever Youth's account of battle with Age. Youth is a devil of a + smart fellow, behind whom Age blunders along in the most ridiculous + fashion. Later this young blood takes his place in the blundering ranks + and then does learn that indeed he was right—Age knows nothing. For + with years we begin to realise our ignorance, and the lesson is not + complete when the grave slams the book. A few plumb the depths of their + ignorance before death: these are able to speak—and these are the + teachers of men. We get here one reason why giants are fewer in our day: + with the growth of man's imaginings and his inventions there is more + vanity to be forced through; the truths of life lie deeper hid; more + phantasms arise to lure us from the quest of realities; the task of + striking truth accumulates. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + Soon after midday the party broke up. Its members lunched early; visiting + surgeons and physicians went their rounds at half-past one. + </p> + <p> + George strolled to the Dean's office. + </p> + <p> + A woebegone-looking youth in spectacles stood before the table; opposite + sat the Dean. He looked up as George entered, and nodded: he was fond of + George. + </p> + <p> + “Come along in,” he said; “I shan't be a minute.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to the sad youth. “Now your case, Mr. Carter,” he said, “is + quite unique. In the whole records of the Medical School”—he waved + at a shelf of fat volumes—“in the whole records of the Medical + School we have nothing in the remotest degree resembling it. You have + actually failed twice in—in—” + </p> + <p> + The Dean searched wildly among a litter of papers; baffled, threw out an + emphasising hand, and repeated, “<i>Twice</i>! Other hospitals, Mr. + Carter, may have room for slackers—we have not. We have a record and + a reputation of which we are proud. You are in your second year. How old + are you?” + </p> + <p> + A faint whisper said, “Nineteen.” + </p> + <p> + The Dean started. “Nineteen! Oh, dear me, dear me! this is worse than I + thought—far worse. I am afraid, Mr. Carter, I shall have to write to + your father.” + </p> + <p> + Guttural with emotion, Mr. Carter gasped: “I mean to work—indeed I + do.” + </p> + <p> + Again the Dean frantically searched on his desk to discover the subject in + which Mr. Carter had failed; again was unsuccessful. Deep thought ravelled + his brow. His fingers drummed indecision on the table. It was a telling + picture of one struggling between duty and kindliness—masterly as + the result of long practice. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Carter,” the Dean summed up, “I will consider your case more fully + to-night. Against my better judgment I may perhaps decide not on this + occasion to communicate with your father. But remember this. At the very + outset of your career you have strained to breaking-point the confidence + of your teachers. Only by stupendous efforts on your part can that + confidence be restored. These failures, believe me, will dog you from now + until you are qualified—nay, will dog your whole professional + career. That will do.” + </p> + <p> + In a convulsion of relief and of agitation beneath this appalling prospect + the dogged man quavered thanks; stumbled from the room. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + George laughed. “Same old dressing-down,” he said. “Don't you ever alter + the formula?” + </p> + <p> + “It's very effective,” the Dean replied. “That's the sixth this morning. + Unfortunately I couldn't remember in what subject that boy had failed; so + he didn't get the best part—the part about that being the one + subject of all others which, if failed in, predicted ruin.” + </p> + <p> + “It was biology in my case,” George told him. “I trembled with funk.” + </p> + <p> + “I think most of you do. It's fortunate that all you men when you first + come up are afraid of your fathers. It gives us a certain amount of hold + over you. If the thing were done properly, both at the 'Varsities and the + hospitals, there would be a system of marks and reports just as at + schools. You are only boys when you first come up, and you should be + treated as boys; instead, you are left free and irresponsible. It ruins + dozens of men every year.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps that's why I'm here now,” George responded. “You know I got + ploughed?” + </p> + <p> + The Dean told George how sorry he had been to hear it. He questioned: “Bad + luck, I suppose? I thought it was a sitter for you this time.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, rotten luck.” + </p> + <p> + “It's unfortunate, you know. You would have got a house appointment. I'm + afraid you will miss that mow. There will be a crowd of very hot men up + with you in October, junior to you, who will get the vacancies. What will + you do?” + </p> + <p> + George shrugged and laughed. + </p> + <p> + The Dean frowned; interpreted the shrug. “Well, you should care,” he said. + “You ought to be looking around you. Won't your uncle help you to buy a + partnership?” + </p> + <p> + “We are on worse terms than ever after this failure. Not he.” + </p> + <p> + “And you're not trying to be on good terms, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Not I.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a remarkably silly young man. You want balance, Leicester, you + want balance. It would be the making of you to have some serious purpose + in life. You will run against something of the kind soon—you'll get + engaged, perhaps, and then you'll regret your happy-go-lucky ways.” He + fumbled amongst a pile of correspondence and drew out a letter. “Now, look + here, I was thinking of you only a few moments ago. Here's a letter from a + man who—who—where is it?—Ah, yes—If you could + raise 400 pounds by the time you are qualified I could put you on to a + splendid thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Not the remotest chance,” said George. “The serious purpose must wait. I—” + </p> + <p> + The Dean waved a hand that asked silence; consulted the letter. “This is + from a man in practice at a place called Runnygate—one of these + rising seaside resorts—Hampshire—great friend of mine. He's + got money, and he's going to chuck it—doesn't suit his wife. I told + him I'd find a purchaser if he would leave it with me. Merely nominal—only + 400 pounds. He says that in a year or so there'll be a small fortune in + the practice, because a company is taking the place over to develop it. + You shall have first refusal. Come now, pull yourself together, + Leicester.” + </p> + <p> + George laughed. He stood up. “Thanks, I refuse now. What on earth's the + good?” + </p> + <p> + “Rubbish,” said the Dean. “Think over that serious interest in life. You + never know your luck.” + </p> + <p> + George moved to the door. “I know my luck all right,” he laughed. “Never + mind, I'm not grumbling with it.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> + <h3> + Upon Life: And May Be Missed. + </h3> + <p> + In the ante-room, as it were, of a very short chapter, we must make ready + to receive our heroine. She is about to spring dazzling upon our pages; + will be our close companion through some moving scenes. We must collect + ourselves, brush our hair, arrange our dress, prepare our nicest manner. + </p> + <p> + And as in ante-rooms there are commonly papers laid about to beguile the + tedium, and as the faint rustle of our heroine's petticoats is warning + that George's assertion that he knew his luck is immediately to be + disproved, let us make a tiny little paper on the folly of such a + statement. + </p> + <p> + For of his luck man has no glimmer of prescience. Day by day we rattle the + box, throw the dice; but of how these will fall we have no knowledge. We + only hope with the gambler's feverishness; and it is this very hazard that + keeps us crowding and pushing to hold our place at the tables where + fortune spins. Grow we sick of the game, sour with our luck, weary of the + hazard, and relinquish we our place at the table, we are pushed back and + out—elbowed, thrown, trampled. + </p> + <p> + We are all treasure-seekers set on a treasure-island in a boundless sea. + Cruelly marooned we are—flung ashore without appeal, and here + deserted until the ship that disembarked us suddenly swoops and the + press-gang snatches us again aboard—again without heed to our + desire. Whence the ship brought us we do not know, and whither it will + carry us we do not know; there is none to prick a return voyage disclosing + the ultimate haven, though pilots there be who pretend to the knowledge—we + cannot test them. + </p> + <p> + But the marooners, when they land us, give us wherewith to occupy our + thoughts. This is a treasure-island. Each man of us they land with a pick; + the inhabitants tell us of the treasure, and, being acclimatised, we set + to work to dig and delve. Some work in shafts already sunk, some seek to + break new ground, but what the pick will next turn up no one knows. + </p> + <p> + And it is this uncertainty, this hazard, that keeps us hammer, hammer, + hammering; that keeps us, some from brooding against the marooners, their + wanton desertion of us, our ultimate fate at their hands; others from + making ready against the return voyage as entreated by the pilots. + </p> + <p> + Certainly, when the pick strikes a pocket, we turn to carousing; cease + cocking a timid eye at the horizon. + </p> + <p> + And now our heroine is beckoning. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> + <h3> + Magnificent Arrival Of A Heroine. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + Until three o'clock George sat in an operating theatre. An unimportant + case was in process: occasionally, through the group of dressers, surgeons + and nurses who filled the floor, George caught a glimpse of the subject. + He watched moodily, too occupied with his thoughts—three more months + of dependency—to take greater interest. + </p> + <p> + One other student was present. Peacefully he slumbered by George's side + until the ring of a dropped forceps awakened him. Noting the cause, + “Clumsy beast,” said this Mr. Franklyn; and to George: “Come on, + Leicester; my slumber is broken. Let's go for a stroll up West.” + </p> + <p> + In Oxford Street a pretty waitress in a tea-shop drew Mr. Franklyn's eye; + a drop of rain whacked his nose. He winked the eye; wiped the nose. “Tea,” + said he; “it is going to rain.” + </p> + <p> + He addressed the pretty waitress: “I have no wish to seem inquisitive, but + which table do you attend?” + </p> + <p> + The girl jerked her chin: “What's that to you?” + </p> + <p> + “So much,” Mr. Franklyn earnestly told her, “that, until I know, here, + beautiful but inconvenient, in the doorway I stand.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, all of 'em.” She whisked away. + </p> + <p> + “You're badly snubbed, Franklyn,” George said. “This rain is nothing.” + </p> + <p> + A summer shower crashed down as he spoke; a mob of shoppers, breathless + for shelter, drove them inwards. + </p> + <p> + “George,” said Mr. Franklyn, seating himself, “your base mind thinks I + have designs on this girl. I grieve at so distorted a fancy. The child + says prettily that she attends 'all of 'em.' It is a gross case of + overwork into which I feel it my duty more closely to inquire.” + </p> + <p> + George laughed. “Do you always spend your afternoons like this?” + </p> + <p> + “As a rule, yes. I have been fifteen years at St. Peter's awaiting that + day when through pure ennui the examiners will pass me. It will be a sad + wrench to leave the dear old home.” He continued, a tinge of melancholy in + his voice: “You know, I am the last of the old brigade. The medical + student no longer riots. His name is no longer a byword; he is a rabbit. + Alone, undismayed, I uphold the old traditions. I am, so to speak, one of + the old aristocracy. Beneath the snug characteristics of the latter-day + student—his sweet abhorrence of a rag, his nasty delight in plays + which he calls 'hot-stuff,' his cigarettes and his chess-playing—beneath + these my head, like Henley's, is bloody but unbowed. Forgive a tear.” + </p> + <p> + The shower ceased; the tea was finished; the pretty waitress was coyly + singeing her modesty in the attractive candle of Mr. Franklyn's + suggestions. George left them at the game; strolled aimlessly towards the + Marble Arch; beyond it; to the right, and so into a quiet square. + </p> + <p> + Here comes my heroine. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + The hansom, as George walked, was coming towards him—smartly, with a + jingle of bells; skimming the kerb. As it reached him (recall that shower) + the horse slipped, stumbled, came on its knees. + </p> + <p> + Down came the shafts; out shot the girl. + </p> + <p> + The doors were wide; the impetus took her in her stride. One tiny foot + dabbed at the platform's edge; the other twinkled—patent leather and + silver buckle—at the step, missed it, plunged with a giant stride + for the pavement. + </p> + <p> + “Mercy!” she cried, and came like a shower of roses swirling into George's + arms. + </p> + <p> + Completely he caught her. About his legs whipped her skirts; against him + pressed her panting bosom; his arms—the action was instinctive—locked + around her; the adorable perfume of her came on him like breeze from a + violet bed; her very cheek brushed his lips—since the first kiss it + was the nearest thing possible to a kiss. + </p> + <p> + She twisted backwards. Modesty chased alarm across her face—caught, + battled, overcame it; flamed triumphant. + </p> + <p> + Fright at her accident drove her pale; shame at the manner of her descent—leg + to the knee and an indelicacy of petticoats—agitated she had + glimpsed it as she leapt—flushed her crimson from the line of her + dress about her throat to the wave of her hair upon her brow. + </p> + <p> + She twisted back. “Oh, what must you think of me?” she gasped. + </p> + <p> + He simply could not say. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> + <h3> + Moving Passages With A Heroine. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + George could not say. + </p> + <p> + His senses were washed aswim by this torrent of beauty poured unexpected + through eyes to brain. It surged the centres to violent commotion, one + jostling another in a whirlpool of conflict. Out of the tumult alarm + flashed down the wires to his heart—set it banging; flashed in wild + message to his tongue—locked it. + </p> + <p> + The driver in our brains is an intolerable fellow in sudden crisis. He + loses his head; distracted he pulls the levers, and, behold, in a moment + the thing is irrevocably done; we are a coward legging it down the street, + a murderer with bloody hand, a liar with false words suddenly pumped. + </p> + <p> + A moment later the driver is calm and aghast at the ruin he has contrived. + Why, before God, did he pull the leg lever?—the arm lever?—the + tongue lever? In an instant's action he has accomplished calamity; where + sunshine laughed now darkness heaps; where the prospect smiled disaster + now comes rolling up in thunder. + </p> + <p> + These are your crises. Again, as now with George, the driver becomes + temporarily idiot—stands us oafishly silent, or perhaps jerks out + some stupid words; remembers when too late the quip that would have + fetched the laugh, the thrust that would have sped the wound. He is an + intolerable fellow. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what must you think of me?” + </p> + <p> + That pause followed while the driver in George's brain stood gapingly + inactive; and then came laughter to him like a draught of champagne. For + the girl put up her firm, round chin and laughed with a clear pipe of glee—a + laugh to call a laugh as surely as a lark's note will set a hedge in song; + and it called the laugh in George. + </p> + <p> + He said: “I am thinking the nicest things of you. But have you dropped + from the skies?” + </p> + <p> + “From a <i>cab</i>,” she protested. + </p> + <p> + She turned to the road; back to George in dismay, for the catapult, its + bullet shot, had bolted up the street—was gone from view. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!—I <i>was</i> in a cab?” she implored. + </p> + <p> + George said: “It <i>looked</i> like a cab. But a fairy-car, I think.” + </p> + <p> + A pucker of her brows darkened the quick mirth that came to her eyes. She + cried: “Oh, don't joke. She will be killed.” + </p> + <p> + “You were not alone?” + </p> + <p> + “No—oh, no! What has happened to her?” + </p> + <p> + “We had better follow.” + </p> + <p> + She corrected his number. “Yes, I had better. Thank you so much for your + help.” She took a step; faltered upon it with a little exclamation of + pain; put a white tooth on her lip. + </p> + <p> + “You have hurt your foot?” George said. + </p> + <p> + “My ankle, I think. Oh dear!” and then again she laughed. + </p> + <p> + It came even then to George that certainly she would have made her fortune + were she to set up a gloom-exorcising bureau—waiting at the end of a + telephone wire ready to rush with that laugh to banish the imps of + melancholy. Never had he heard so infectious a note of mirth. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what must you think of me?” she ended. “I simply cannot help + laughing, you know—and yet, oh dear!” + </p> + <p> + She put the tips of the fingers of a hand against her lower lip, gazed + very anxiously up the road, and then again she gave that clear pipe of + laughter. + </p> + <p> + “I can't help it,” she told him imploringly. “I simply cannot help + laughing. It is funny, you know. She was scolding me—” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Scolding</i>!” George exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + That beauty should be scolded! + </p> + <p> + “Scolding—yes. Oh, I'm only a—well, scolding me, and I was + wishing, <i>wishing</i> I could escape. And then suddenly out I shot. And + then I look around and she's—” A wave of her hand expressed a + disappearance that was by magic agency. + </p> + <p> + “But, <i>scolding</i>?” George said. “Need you trouble? She will be all + right.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I must. I live with her.” + </p> + <p> + “Will she trouble about you?” + </p> + <p> + “I think she will return for me. Please, <i>please</i> go—would you + mind?—to the corner, and see if there has been an accident.” + </p> + <p> + From that direction a bicyclist approached. George hailed. “Is there a cab + accident round the corner?” + </p> + <p> + The youth stared; called “Rats!”; passed. + </p> + <p> + George interpreted: “It means No. Do you think if you were to take my arm + you could walk to the turning?” + </p> + <p> + Quite naturally she slipped a white glove around his elbow. The contact + thrilled him. “No nice girl, you know, would do this,” she said, “with a + perfect stranger.” + </p> + <p> + George bent his arm a little, the better to feel the pressure of those + white fingers. “I am not really perfect,” he told her. + </p> + <p> + She took his mood. “Nor I really nice,” she joined. “In fact, I'm horrible—they + tell me. But I think it is wise to follow, don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Profoundly wise. Who says you are horrible?” + </p> + <p> + She gave no answer. Glancing, he saw trouble shade her eyes, tremble her + lips. + </p> + <p> + That beauty should know distress! + </p> + <p> + Very slightly he raised his forearm so that the lock of his elbow felt her + hand. He had no fine words. This George was no hero with exquisite ways. + He was a most average young man, and nothing could he find but most + painfully average words. + </p> + <p> + “I say, what's up?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + She spoke defiantly; but some stupid something that she hated yet could + not repress trembled her lips, robbed her tone of its banter. “What's up?” + she said. “Why, <i>you</i> would say something was up if you'd just been + shot plump out of a cab, wouldn't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but you were laughing a minute ago.” He looked down at her, but she + turned her face. “Now, now, I believe—” He did not name his thought. + </p> + <p> + She looked up. Her pretty face was red. He saw little flutters of eyelids, + flutters round the eyes, flutters at the mouth. “Oh,” she said, “oh, yes, + and I don't know why. I'm—I believe—” She tried to laugh, but + the little flutterings clouded the smile like soft, dark wings flickering + upon a sunbeam. + </p> + <p> + “I believe—it's ridiculous to a perfect—imperfect—stranger—I + believe I'm nearly—crying.” + </p> + <p> + And this inept George could only return: “I say—oh, I say, can I + help you?” + </p> + <p> + She stopped; from his arm withdrew her hand. “Please—I think you had + better go. Please go. Oh, I shall hate myself for behaving like this.” + </p> + <p> + So unhappy she was that George immediately planned her a backdoor of + excuse. “But you have no occasion to blame yourself,” he told her. “You've + had an adventure—naturally you're shaken a bit.” + </p> + <p> + She was relieved to think he had misunderstood her agitation. “Yes, an + adventure,” she said, “that's it. And I haven't had an adventure for + years, so naturally—But, please, I think you had better go. If my—my + friend saw me with you like this she would be angry—oh, very angry.” + </p> + <p> + “But why? She saw you fall. She saw me save you.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't understand. She is not exactly my friend; she is my—my + employer. I'm a mother's-help.” + </p> + <p> + The mirth that never lay deep beneath those blue eyes of hers was + sparkling up now; the soft, dark wings were fluttering no longer. + </p> + <p> + She continued: “A mother's-help. Doesn't that sound wretched? I'm terribly + slow at learning the mother's-help rules, but I'm positive of this rule—mothers' + helps may not shoot out of cabs and leave the mother; it's such little + help—you must see that?” + </p> + <p> + “But you will be less help still if you stay here for ever with your hurt + ankle—you must see that? I must stay with you or see you to your + home.” + </p> + <p> + When she answered, it was upon another change of mood. The soft, dark + wings were fluttering again; and it was the banter of George's tone that + had recalled them. For this was an adventure—and she had not known + adventure for years; for these were flippant exchanges arising out of gay + young hearts, and they recalled memories of days when such harmless + bantering was of her normal life; for there had been sympathy in George's + stammering inquiries, and it recalled the time when she lived amidst + sympathy and amidst love. + </p> + <p> + The soft, dark wings fluttered again: “I am very grateful to you for + helping me,” she told him. “You must not think me ungrateful; only, I + think you had better go. In my position I am not free to—to do as I + like, talk where I will. You understand?” Her voice trembled a little, and + she repeated: “You understand?” + </p> + <p> + George said, “I understand.” + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + And that was all that passed upon this meeting. A cab swung round the + opposite corner; pulled up with a rattle; turned towards them; was + alongside. Within, a brow of thunder sat. + </p> + <p> + The cabman called, “I knowed you was all right, miss,” raised the trap, + and cheerfully repeated the information to his fare: “I knowed she was all + right, mum.” + </p> + <p> + The mum addressed gave no congratulation to his prescience. He shut the + lid; winked at George; behind his hand communicated, “Not 'arf angry, she + ain't.” + </p> + <p> + The girl ran forward; agitation bound up her hurt ankle. “Oh!” she cried, + “I am so glad you are safe!” + </p> + <p> + The thunder-figure addressed said: “Please get in. I have had a severe + shock.” + </p> + <p> + “This gentleman—” The girl half turned to George. + </p> + <p> + “Please get in—instantly.” + </p> + <p> + Scarlet the girl went. “Thank you very much,” she said to George; climbed + in beside the cloud of wrath. + </p> + <p> + Her companion slammed the door; dabbed at George a bow that was like a + sharp poke with a stick; called, “Drive on.” + </p> + <p> + George stepped into the road, held half a crown to the driver: “The + address?” + </p> + <p> + The man stooped. With a tremendous wink answered, “Fourteen Palace + Gardens, St. John's Wood.” + </p> + <p> + Away with a jingle. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> + <h3> + Astonishing After-Effects Of A Heroine. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + George did not return to St. Peter's that afternoon; watched the cab from + view; walked back to Waterloo; thence took train to Paltley Hill with mind + awhirl. + </p> + <p> + Recovering from stunning shock the mind first sees a blur of events—formless, + seething, inextricably tangled. Deep in this boiling chaos is one fact + struggling more powerfully than the rest to cool and so to shape itself. + It kicks a leg free here, there an arm, then another leg. Its exertions + cause the whole more furiously to agitate—the brain is afire. Very + suddenly this struggling fact jumps free. Laid hold of it is a cold spoon + which, plunged back into the seething cauldron, arrests the turmoil of its + contents. + </p> + <p> + Or again, recovering from sudden shock the mind first sees a great + whirling, blinding cloud of dust which hides and wreathes about the sudden + topple of masonry that has provoked it. Here the slowly emerging fact may + be likened to a clear gangway through the ruin up which the fevered owner + may walk to investigate the catastrophe's cause and extent. + </p> + <p> + So now with George. If not dazed by stunning shock, he was at least awhirl + by set back of the swift sequence of events which suddenly had buffeted + him; and it was not until strolling up from Paltley Hill railway station + to Herons' Holt that one cooling fact emerged from which he might make an + ordered examination of what had passed. + </p> + <p> + The address that the cabman had given him was this fact—14 Palace + Gardens, St. John's Wood. Here was the gangway through the pile of + disorder, and here George resolutely made a start of examining events in + place of wildly beating about through the dust of aimless conjectures. + </p> + <p> + He visualised this Palace Gardens residence. A gloomy house, he suspected,—prison-like; + its inhabitants warders, the girl their captive. A beautiful picture was + thus presented to this ridiculous young man. For if the girl were indeed + captive, warder-surrounded, how gratefully her heart must press towards + him who was no turnkey! The more irksomely her captors held her, the more + warmly would she remember him. Subconsciously he hoped for a rattle of + chains, a scourging with whips. Every bond, every stroke would speed her + spirit to the recollection of their meeting. + </p> + <p> + But this delectable picture soon faded. Love—and this ridiculous + George vowed he was in love—love is a mental see-saw. The + nicely-balanced mind is set suddenly oscillating: now up, commandingly + above the world, intoxicated with the rush and the elevation; now down to + depths made horribly deep by contrast, wretchedly jarred by the bump. + </p> + <p> + A new thought impelled a downward jolt of this kind. Failing a gloomy 14 + Palace Gardens, supposing the girl to be happily situated, it was horribly + improbable that she would give him a moment's thought. This was a most + chilling idea. Shivering beneath the douche, George's mind ran back along + the episode of their meeting to discover arguments that would build up the + chains and the whips. + </p> + <p> + Memories banked high on either side. In search of his desire George + gathered them haphazard, closely examined each. + </p> + <p> + It was an unsatisfactory business. Here was a memory. She had said + so-and-so. Yes; but, damn it, that might mean anything. He flung it down; + took another. She had said so-and-so. Yes; but, damn it, that might have + meant nothing. + </p> + <p> + This was very disturbing. He must systematically go through the whole pile + of memories—upon an ordered plan reconstruct each step of the + episode. + </p> + <p> + At first attempt it was a wretched business. Never was builder set to work + with bricks so impossible as the bricks of conversation with which this + reconstruction must be done. Each that the girl had supplied might + dovetail in as he would have it go; upon the other hand it fitted equally + well when twisted into the form in which, for all he knew, she might have + constructed it. The bricks George had himself supplied he found even more + disconcerting—they were stupid, ugly, laughable. He shoved them in, + and they grinned at him—mocked him. None the less he persevered—he + must get his answer; he must see both what she had thought of him and if + she were likely still to be thinking of him. And at last the whole passage + was reconstructed. He examined it, and once more down came the see-saw + with a most shattering bump: he had made himself an idiot, and stood + champion idiot if he believed she were likely to remember him. + </p> + <p> + With a crash George sent the whole pile flying. Let him wander blindly in + the dust of imaginings rather than be tortured by the grim austerity of + ordered facts. More than this, there was one most comfortable memory to + which he desperately clung—that falter in her voice when she had + said “You understand?” Whenever, during that evening, doubt stirred and + bade him recognise himself for a fool, George flattened the ugly spectre + with the arm he contrived out of this memory. + </p> + <p> + It was a lusty weapon. + </p> + <p> + But a fresh vexation that lies in wait for all new lovers tore him when he + got to bed. In the darkness he set his mind solely to recalling the girl's + face. The picture tantalisingly eluded him. Generalities he could recall. + She was fair, very, very fair; her hair was shining golden; but how was it + arranged? In desperation he squirmed off to her eyes—blue; no, grey; + no, blue. Damn it, he would forget whether she were black or white in a + minute. Her chin? Ah, he had that!—white and firm and round. And her + nose?—small, and a trifle tip-tilted. And her mouth?—her + mouth, oh, heaven, he could not fix her mouth! The distracted young man + tossed upon his pillow and went elsewhere. Distinctly he could remember + her little feet with those silver buckles, quite different from any other + feet. And she held herself slim and supple. Held herself? Why, good + heavens! she was tall, and he had been thinking of her as short! This was + appalling! He might meet her and pass her by. He might ... he rushed into + troubled slumber. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + The night gave him little rest. Whilst his body lay heavy, his brain, + feverishly active, chased through the hours glimpses of the queen of his + adventure. By early morning he was prodded into consciousness, and awaked + to find himself instantly confronted with a terrible affair. Into his + life, so he assured himself, had come a serious interest such as that + which the Dean had hoped for him. + </p> + <p> + Here, lying abed with fresh morning smiling in through the open window, + for the first time he looked forward, following the face he had pursued + through his dreams, into the future. Its chambers he found ghastly barren. + He visualised it as a vast unfurnished house. To the merry eye with which + two days ago he had looked upon the world, the picture, had he then + conjured it, would have given him no gloom. He would have thought it a + fine thing, this empty house that was his own—empty, but + representing freedom. + </p> + <p> + The matter was different now. Into this empty house had danced the girl. + Her gay presence discovered its barrenness. There was not a chair on which + she could sit, not a dish in the larder. + </p> + <p> + George recalled that tight little practice at Runnygate that might be had + for 400 pounds; went down to breakfast rehearsing a scene with his uncle; + was moody through the meal. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + The breakfast dragged past its close. Mr. Marrapit spoke. “The moments + fly,” he observed. + </p> + <p> + Margaret said earnestly: “Oh, yes, father.” + </p> + <p> + “I was addressing George.” + </p> + <p> + “Ur!” said George, suddenly aroused. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit looked at his watch; repeated his observation. + </p> + <p> + George read his meaning. “I thought of going up by the later train + to-day,” he explained. + </p> + <p> + “A dangerous thought. Crush it.” Mr. Marrapit continued: “Margaret, Mrs. + Major, I observe you have concluded”; and when the two had withdrawn + addressed himself again to George: “A dangerous thought. You recall our + conversation of the day before yesterday?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet by later trains, by idleness, you deliberately imperil your future?” + </p> + <p> + George did not answer the question. This was the very opportunity for + which he had wished. “I would like to talk about my future,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I dare not dwell upon it,” replied Mr. Marrapit. + </p> + <p> + “I have to. I shall pass all right this time. I want to know—the + fact is, sir, I know I have slacked in the past; I am a man now, and I—I + regret it. I fully realise my responsibilities. You may rely that I shall + make a certainty of the October examination.” + </p> + <p> + “Commendable,” Mr. Marrapit criticised. + </p> + <p> + “I want to know what help I may expect when I qualify.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot tell you.” Mr. Marrapit threw martyrdom into his tone. “I am so + little,” he said, “in your confidence. Your expectations when qualified + may be enormous. I am not favoured with them.” He sighed. + </p> + <p> + George said: “I mean what help I may expect from you.” + </p> + <p> + The piece of toast rising to Mr. Marrapit's mouth slowly returned towards + his plate: “Reiterate that. From <i>me</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “From you,” said George. + </p> + <p> + The toast dropped from trembling fingers. “<i>I</i>?” Mr. Marrapit dragged + the word to tremendous length. “I? Is it conceivable that you expect money + from me?” + </p> + <p> + “I only ask.” + </p> + <p> + “I only shudder. Might I inquire the amount?” + </p> + <p> + “The Dean told me of a practice I could have for 400 pounds.” + </p> + <p> + “Tea!” exclaimed Mr. Marrapit on a gasp. “I must steady myself! Tea!” He + paused; gulped a cup; with alarmed eyes stared at George. + </p> + <p> + The affair was going no better than George had expected. He remembered the + face that was dear to him; nerved himself to continue. “I would pay it + back,” he said. “Will you lend me the 400 pounds?” + </p> + <p> + “I must have air!” Mr. Marrapit staggered to the window. “I reel before + this sudden assault. For nine years at ruinous cost I have supported you. + Must I sell my house? Am I never to be free? Must I totter always through + life with you upon my bowed back? I am Sinbad.” + </p> + <p> + “There's no need to exaggerate or make a scene.” + </p> + <p> + “Did I impel the scene?” + </p> + <p> + “I only asked you a question,” George reminded. + </p> + <p> + “You have aroused a spectre,” Mr. Marrapit answered. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I may understand that I need expect nothing?” + </p> + <p> + “I dare not answer you. I am shaken. I tremble.” + </p> + <p> + George rose. Though what hope he had possessed was driven by his uncle's + attitude, he was as yet only upon the threshold of his love. Hence the + refusal of what he suddenly desired for that love's sake was not so bitter + an affair as afterwards it came to be. “This is ridiculous,” he said; + moved to the door. + </p> + <p> + “To me a tragedy,” Mr. Marrapit declaimed from the window, “old as + mankind; not therefore less bitter—the tragedy of ingratitude. At + stupendous cost I have supported, educated, clothed you. You turn upon me + for more. How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless + child! I am Lear.” + </p> + <p> + George tried a thrust: “I always understood my mother left you ample for + me.” + </p> + <p> + “Adjust that impression. She left me less than a sufficiency—nothing + approaching amplitude. To the best of my ability I have fulfilled my task. + It has been hard. I do not complain. I do not ask you for repayment of any + excess that may have been incurred. But I am embittered by yet further + demands. I have been too liberal. Had I meted out strict justice as I have + striven to mete out kindness, my grey hairs would not be speeding in + poverty to the grave. I am Wolsey.” + </p> + <p> + Upon Wolsey George slammed the door; started for the station. + </p> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <p> + Palace Gardens, St. John's Wood, was his aim. There could be no work, nor + even thought of work, until again he had met his lady. Yet how to meet her + cost him another of the wrestles with conjecture that had been his lot + since the cab carried her away. + </p> + <p> + At first it was easy work. He would call, he decided, with polite + inquiries; and as he pictured the scene his spirits rose. The + thunder-figure that had poked a bow at him from the cab would come + dragonish into the drawing-room where he waited. Her he would charm with + the suavity of his manners; she would doff the dragon's skin; would say + (he had read the scene in novels), “You would like to see Miss So-and-so?” + </p> + <p> + The girl would come in .... + </p> + <p> + With her appearance in his thoughts George's mind swung from coherent + reasoning into a delectable phantasy .... + </p> + <p> + A sudden thought swept the filmy clouds-landed him with a bump upon hard + rock. He was not supposed to know their address. How, to the dragon, could + he explain the venal trick by which he had acquired it? Now he beheld a + new picture. Himself in the drawing-room; to him the dragon; her first + words, “How did you know where we lived?”; his miserable answer. + </p> + <p> + This was very unpleasant. As a red omnibus took him on towards St. John's + Wood he decided that the meeting must be otherwise effected. The girl must + sometimes go out. She had called herself a mother's-help; it suggested + children; and, if children, doubtless her task to take them walking. Well, + he would take up a post near to the house, and wait—just wait. + </p> + <p> + And then there came a final thought that struck him cold and staring. What + if she did not live at the house?—was merely about to visit there + when the accident befell the cab? + </p> + <p> + It was a sorely agitated young man that stepped off the 'bus and struck up + Palace Gardens. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK II. + </h2> + <h3> + Of his Mary. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <h3> + Excursions In The Memory Of A Heroine. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + AS that cab swung round the corner bearing away the nameless haunter of + George's dreams, she to the red wrath beside her turned, and, “Oh, Mrs. + Chater,” she said, “I hope you are not hurt!” + </p> + <p> + By a mercy Mrs. Chater was not hurt. By a special intervention of + Providence she had escaped a fearful death. Whether she would ever recover + from the shock was another matter. Whether the shock would prove to be + that sudden strain on her heart which she had been warned would end + fatally, might at any moment be proved. Much anybody, except her darling + children, would care if she were brought home dead in this very cab. Never + had she known a heart to act as hers was acting now—thumping as if + it would burst, first quickly then slowly. Perhaps Miss Humfray would feel + it, and give her opinion. + </p> + <p> + Where the girl now laid her small hand five infant Chaters had been + nourished; the massive bosom was advertisement that they had done well. + Beneath the mingled gusts of hysteria and of wrath it violently contracted + and dilated; but the heart, terrificly though Mrs. Chater said it + throbbed, lay too deep to be discerned. + </p> + <p> + The agitated woman panted, “Can it go on like that?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I hardly—” Miss Humfray shifted her hand. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Stupid!</i> Take off your glove!” + </p> + <p> + The white kid clung to the warm flesh. Nervous and clumsy the girl + struggled with it. + </p> + <p> + “Miss <i>Humfray!</i> How slow you are! <i>Pull</i> it!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater grabbed the turned-back wrist. A crack answered the jerk, and + the glove split away in her hand. “<i>There!</i> Not my fault. Next time, + perhaps, you will buy gloves sufficiently large. Oh, my poor heart! Now, + feel. <i>Press!</i>” + </p> + <p> + The girl bit her lip. Humiliation lumped in her throat. She pressed, as + bid, into that heaving blouse; said she could feel it. It was not very + violent, she thought. Perhaps if Mrs. Chater lay back and closed her eyes— + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> was not able to jump out, you see,” said Mrs. Chater, sinking. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you don't think I <i>jumped</i> out—and left you? I <i>wouldn't</i>. + Besides, it is the most dangerous thing to do. That would have prevented + me in any case. I was thrown. I thought I was going to be killed.” + </p> + <p> + “You were with a young man.” + </p> + <p> + “He caught me.” + </p> + <p> + The words came faintly. Nearly the girl was crying. That lump in her + throat seemed to be squeezing tears from her eyes—silly tears. She + did not want Mrs. Chater's sympathy, yet could not but reflect what + disregard for her the utter absence of inquiry showed. Bitter thoughts yet + more dangerously squeezed the tears. She was a paid <i>thing</i>, that was + all—not even a servant. Mrs. Chater was on kindly terms with her + servants—had experienced the servant problem and craftily evaded it + by the familiarity that was too useful to produce contempt—knew her + maids' young men, entered into their quarrels with their young men, read + their young men's letters. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + Gazing through the cab window, pressed into her corner, the girl felt + herself friendless, outcast, alone. Again she told herself that she did + not want Mrs. Chater's sympathy; yet it was the studied withholding of it—studied + or callous because so natural, the merest conventionalism, to have asked, + “Were you hurt?”—that made her acutely feel her position. + </p> + <p> + A paradox, she thought, not to want a thing and yet to be wounded because + it was not hers. A ridiculous paradox—and brightly she tried to + smile at the silliness of it; blinking the tears that were swelling now, + her face turned against the window towards the pavement. + </p> + <p> + A tall, slim girl was passing, holding the arm of a nice-looking little + old man with a grey moustache and military air. The tall, slim girl was + laughing down at him, and he looked to be chuckling merrily, just as—Her + mind swung off, and the tears must be blinked again. + </p> + <p> + They reminded her, those two, of herself and her father. Such familiar + friends as they looked so she had been with Dad who idolised her and whom + she had idolised. Just like that—arm in arm, joking, “ragging”—she + used to walk with him round about the home in Ireland—the world to + one another and none else in the world, except the mother who was so + intimately and inseparably of them that years past her death they still + spoke of her as if she were alive. + </p> + <p> + Thus, long after her death, it would be: “Dad, we can't go home by the + hill; mother never lets Grizzle do that climb after a long day.” And: + “Mary, your mother won't like you being so late; we must turn back.” And: + “Mary, there's the pig by mother's almond tree; run and shoo him.” + </p> + <p> + Partly this refusal to recognise that, though dead, Mother was actually + gone from them, no longer was sharing their little jokes and duties, was + because death came with such steady, appreciable, unfrightening steps. + First the riding stopped, and then the walks made shorter and shorter; + then the strolls in the garden stopped, and then carrying the couch out + under the trees—and none of them very fearful, because prepared: it + was to be—almost the very day could have been named. Thus, when it + came, though the blow swooped heavy, terrific, she never seemed actually + to have left them. + </p> + <p> + “Well, now, dear dears,” she had said with a little smile and a little + sigh, “we have been happy ... only a little way away....” + </p> + <p> + But with Dad it was different. Somehow, looking back on it, one had + supposed that nothing would ever touch the cheery little man; that she and + he would go on and on and on—well, till they grew very old together. + </p> + <p> + Nothing could ever touch him.... + </p> + <p> + “What a wicked beauty, eh, Mary?” he had said when the man brought round + the half-broken filly that its owner “funked.” + </p> + <p> + And she had laughed and said: “Yes, an angel in a temper—what a run + you will have, Dad!” and had waved from the gate as the angel in a temper + curveted away around the corner. + </p> + <p> + Nothing could ever touch him.... + </p> + <p> + And then the man on a bicycle—with a dent in his hat, she noticed. + </p> + <p> + “If you can come quickly, missy. Top of the Three Finger field he lays.” + </p> + <p> + Bare-backed she had galloped Grizzle there, and as she sped could not for + the life of her think of aught else than the dent in the man's hat; rode + up Three Finger Lane wondering how it came there; approached the little + group wondering why he did not push it out. + </p> + <p> + Just as she galloped up they took off their hats. Someone who had been on + his knees stood upright—she saw the stain of wet earth where he had + been kneeling; forgot the dented hat; wondered if he knew of the Marvel + Cleaning Pad that had done so wonderfully with Dad's breeches when he took + a toss last Friday. + </p> + <p> + Dad...! Of course...! It was to see Dad that she was here. + </p> + <p> + Somebody tried to dissuade her ... better wait till they brought him home + ... could do no good—now. + </p> + <p> + “Why? Why not see him? Let me pass, Mr. Saunders.” + </p> + <p> + Well, the filly lay across him ... he had begged them not to move her + because of the pain.... Better come away. + </p> + <p> + She pushed through them.... Yes, better perhaps not to have seen ... all + crumpled up.... + </p> + <p> + Recollecting, she could feel distinctly in her knees the creepy damp as + the moisture of the marshy ground penetrated her skirts, bending over the + twisted face. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + Thereafter a blank of days in which events must have occurred but to which + memory brought no lamp until the faint crunch as the coffin touched the + earth seven feet down.... + </p> + <p> + Multitudinous papers after that. Wearying, sickening masses of documents; + interminable writing of signature; interminable making of lists. And then + the word LOT. “Lot I,” “Lot 2,” “Lot 50,” “Lot 200”—a hammerlike + word to thump the brain at night, frightening sleep, producing grotesque + nightmares, as “Lot 12, a polished oak coffin, finished plain, brass + Handles.” + </p> + <p> + No! No! That was not to be sold!—leaden hands holding her down; + stifling hands at her mouth to stay her shouting “Stop!” + </p> + <p> + Then sudden consciousness—only a dream! Bolt upright in bed staring + into the darkness. A dream? How much of it a dream? Was it all a dream? + The fevered brain would fetch her from her bed, groping to Dad's room, + striking a match—no familiar form upon the bed; a big white ticket—“Lot + 56.” + </p> + <p> + Back to the hot, crumpled couch, there, tossing, to lie attempting a + grasp, a realisation of what it all meant.... + </p> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <p> + A dark little office in Dublin.... So much the “Lots” had fetched, so much + the balance at the bank; no investments, it was to be feared; no + insurance, my dear Miss Humfray; so much the bills and other claims on the + estate.... “Don't wish to be bothered with figures? Of course not, my + dear.... And then we come to the balance—I'm afraid a few pounds, + practically nothing....” + </p> + <h3> + V. + </h3> + <p> + On the steamer bound for Holyhead.... During the crossing the stifling + weight that had benumbed her intellect ever since the man with the dent in + his hat came riding up the drive seemed suddenly to lift. Whipped away + perhaps by the edged wind that rushed past her from England to Ireland + sinking in the sea—a wind to cut you to the bone; discovering + sensation in every marrow; stinging her to clear thought.... That idyllic + life with Mother and Dad—the world to one another and none else in + the world beside—had been rather the creation of circumstance than + of design. Dad's people were furious when he married Mother; in defiance + of hers, Mother married Dad. Relations on either side had shrieked their + disapproval of the match, then left the couple to their own adventures. A + thing to laugh at in those days, but bringing now to the child that was + left the realisation of not a support in the world. + </p> + <p> + Her mother's sisters had written after the funeral inviting her to come to + them in England “while she looked about her.” She could recall every + sentence of that letter. It had burned. Each word, each comma was fresh + before her eyes as the cab jolted on to Palace Gardens. + </p> + <p> + “It would have been our pleasure constantly to have entertained you during + your mother's life-time,” they had written, “but she wilfully flouted our + desires at her marriage and thereafter utterly ignored us. The fault for + the rift between us was of her making, not ours; we sent her an Easter + card one year, and had no reply; though we have no doubt that your father, + not that we would say a word against him now, influenced her against her + better judgment. However....” + </p> + <p> + She had written back a hysterical letter. + </p> + <p> + “Your letter came just after I had returned from burying my dear, dear + father, who worshipped my darling mother. If I were begging in the street, + starving, dying, I would not touch a crumb or a penny of yours. You are + wicked—yes, you are wicked to write to me as you have written....” + </p> + <h3> + VI. + </h3> + <p> + She could not stay in Ireland. Her only friends there lived about the dear + home that was now no longer a home but a “desirable residence with some + acres of garden and paddock.” Her only friends there were friends who had + been shared with Mother and Dad—whose presence now would be constant + reminder of that happy participation now lost. One and all offered her + hospitality, but she must refuse. “No, no silly idea of being a burden to + you, dear, dear Mrs. Sullivan—only I can't, can't live anywhere near + where we used to live.” + </p> + <p> + Years before a great friend of hers had married an English clergyman; had + written often to her from London of the numerous activities in which she + was engaged—principal among them a kind of agency and home for + gentlewomen. “Governesses, dear, and all that kind of thing ... poor + girls, many of them, who have suddenly had to earn a living.” + </p> + <p> + The correspondence had died, as do so many, from the effects of undue + urgency at the outset; but she had the address, and was certain there of + welcome and of aid. “Poor girls who have suddenly had to earn a living.” + The words took on a new meaning: she was of these. + </p> + <p> + From Euston she drove to the address. Her friend had gone. Yes, the + present occupant remembered the name. The present occupant had been there + two years; had taken over the lease from the former tenant because the + lady was ill and had been ordered abroad. That was all the present + occupant knew; saw her to the door; closed it behind her. + </p> + <p> + Alone in London. “Alone in London”—it had been one of Dad's jokes; + he had written a burlesque on it, and they had played it one Christmas to + roars of fun. O God! what a thing at which to laugh now that the + realisation struck and one stood on the pavement in the dark with this + great city roaring at one! + </p> + <p> + Cabmen, she had heard, were brutes; but the man who had brought her to the + house must be appealed to.... Where could she get the cheapest lodging of + some kind? + </p> + <p> + How did he know? What was she wanting to pay? ... + </p> + <p> + The great city roared at her. Her head swum a little. An idler or two took + up a grinning stand: the thing looked like a cab-fare dispute.... What was + she wanting to pay? ... Well, as little as possible. “I have never been in + London before, and I don't know anybody. My friend here has gone. I have + just arrived from Ireland.” She began to cry. + </p> + <p> + He from his box in a moment. “From Ireland!” + </p> + <p> + Why, he was from Ireland! ... Not likely she was from Connemara? ... She + was? ... From Kinsloe? ... Why, he knew it well; he was from Ballydag! + </p> + <p> + He rolled his tongue around other names of the district; she knew them + all; could almost have laughed at the silly fellow's delight. + </p> + <p> + Why, the honour it would be if she would come and let his missus make her + up a bed! “Don't ye cry, missie. Don't ye take on like that. It's all + right ye are now.” He put a huge, roughly great-coated arm about her—squeezed + her, she believed; helped her into the cab. + </p> + <h3> + VII. + </h3> + <p> + Missus in the clean little rooms over the rattling mews was no less + delighted. From Kinsloe? Why, missie saw that canary?—that was a + present from Betty Murphy in Kinsloe, not three months before! + </p> + <p> + The canary, aroused by the attention paid it, trilled upward in a mounting + ecstasy of shrillness that went up and up and up through her head ... + louder and louder ... shriller and yet more shrill ... bird and cage + became misty, swum around her.... Missus and Tim must have carried her to + the bed in which she awoke. + </p> + <h3> + VIII. + </h3> + <p> + Friends in Ireland had given her the addresses of friends in London on + whom she must call. She visited some houses; then in a sudden wild despair + tore the list. Either these people were dense of comprehension or she + clumsy of explanation. To make them realise her position she found + impossible. They were warmly kind, sympathetic—cheery in that + lugubrious fashion in which we are taught to be “bright” with the + afflicted. But when she spoke of the necessity to find employment they + would warmly cry, “Oh, but you must not think of that yet, Miss Humfray + ... after all you have been through.... You must keep quiet for a little.” + </p> + <p> + One and all gave her the same words. An impulse took her to kick over the + tea-table—anything to arouse these people from their stereotyped + mood of sympathy with a girl suddenly bereaved,—and to cry, “But + don't you <i>understand</i>? I am living over a mews—over a <i>mews</i> + with twelve pounds and a few shillings, and then <i>nothing</i>—nothing + at all.” + </p> + <p> + Wise, perhaps, had she indulged the outburst without the action; wiser had + she written to some of the friends in Ireland, asked to go back to one of + them for a while. But the dull grief beneath which she still lay benumbed + prevented her from other course than tonelessly accepting the proffered + sympathy; and the thought of returning to Ireland was impossible. She tore + the list of London friends; appealed to Tim and Missus. + </p> + <p> + Tim was helpful. He had taken fares to an Agency in Norfolk Street—an + Agency for “Disturbed Gentlewomen,” he called it; there took her one + morning. + </p> + <p> + “Distressed Gentlewomen,” she found the brass plate to read—“The + Norfolk Street Agency for Distressed Gentlewomen.” + </p> + <p> + A lymphatic-looking young woman, assisting the growth of a singularly + stout face by sucking a sweet, and wearing brown holland sleeve protectors + hooked up with enormous safety-pins, received her in the room marked + “Enquiries”; put her into that labelled “Waiting.” Here were two copies of + the <i>Christian Herald</i>, some emigration pamphlets, a carafe of water + covered by an inverted tumbler dusty with disuse, and three elderly + females—presumably gentlewomen, possibly distressed, but not + advertising either condition. + </p> + <p> + In due time her turn for the room marked “Private”; interrogation by Miss + Ram, a short, thin lady in black, who bowed more frequently than she + spoke, possessing a range of inclinations of the head each of which had + unmistakable meaning. + </p> + <p> + Position sought?—Oh, anything; governess, companion. Last situation?—None; + she was inexperienced. Capabilities?—Equally lacking, as discovered + by a probing cross-examination. Salary required?—Oh, anything; + whatever was usual; a <i>home</i>—that was the chief object in view. + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram entered the details in a severe-looking book with a long thin pen—could + hold out but faint hopes. The applicants whom she was accustomed to suit + were “in nine and ninety cases out of one hundred cases” accomplished in + the domestic or scholastic arts. However. Yes, Miss Humfray should call + every morning. Better still, stay in the waiting-room. Be On the Spot—that + was the first requisite for success, as Miss Humfray would find whether in + a situation or awaiting a situation; be On the Spot. + </p> + <h3> + IX. + </h3> + <p> + On the Spot. A nightmare week in the dingy waiting-room ... thoughts + probing the mind, stabbing the heart.... Nine till one, a cup of tea and a + roll at an A.B.C. shop, an aimless walk in the park; two till six, + good-night to the stout young woman named Miss Porter in “Enquiries,” home + to the rattling mews and to Missus. + </p> + <p> + On the Spot. Occasional interviews. “Miss Humfray, a lady will see you.” + ... “Oh, too young—far too young.” ... “Thank you, that will do, + Miss Humfray.” ... “Oh, not my style at all.” ... “Thank you, that will + do, Miss Humfray.” + </p> + <p> + On the Spot. Fortunately On the Spot one day—a Mrs. Eyton-Eyton, as + nursery governess, Streatham. + </p> + <p> + For a week very much On the Spot with Mrs. Eyton-Eyton. Nursery governess + was a comprehensive word in the Eyton-Eyton vocabulary; covered every duty + that in a nursery must be performed. One must do the nursery fire, sweep + the nursery floor, bring up and carry down the nursery meals—servants, + you see, object to waiting upon one whom, as Mrs. Eyton-Eyton with a + careless laugh pointed out, they regard as one of themselves. Quickly the + lesson was appreciated that while a servant must never be “put upon,” the + same consideration need not be extended to a lady. Servants are rare in + the market, young ladies cheap. + </p> + <h3> + X. + </h3> + <p> + The lesson of dependence, subserviency, Mary found harder in the learning; + did not study it; therein reaped disaster. + </p> + <p> + She arrived on a Tuesday. Upon that day of the following week Mrs. + Eyton-Eyton paid to the nursery one of her rare visits, beautifully + gowned, the hired victoria waiting to take her a round of calls. + </p> + <p> + Lunch, delayed not to disturb the midday sleep of Masters Thomas and + Richard Eyton-Eyton, was not cleared—Master Thomas still struggling + with a plate of sago pudding. + </p> + <p> + Betwixt her children Mrs. Eyton-Eyton—beautifully gowned, hired + victoria in waiting—took her seat; Mary hovered behind—and + catastrophe swooped. Master Thomas grabbed for a glass of milk; Mary + strove to restrain him. There was an awkward struggle, her elbow—or + his—caught the plate of pudding, tipped the sticky mass into the + silken lap of Mrs. Eyton-Eyton, beautifully gowned, hired victoria in + waiting. + </p> + <p> + Infuriated, Mrs. Eyton-Eyton turned upon Mary. “Oh, you little fool!” + </p> + <p> + The rebuke that should have been taken with downcast eyes, murmured + apologies, was otherwise received. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Eyton! How dare you call me a fool!” + </p> + <p> + Pause of blank amazement; sago-messed table-napkin in the scented hand; + sago creeping down the silken skirt. That a nursery governess—not + even a servant—should so presume! + </p> + <p> + “Miss Humfray! You forget yourself!” + </p> + <p> + “No!-No! It is you who forget yourself. How dare you speak to me like + that!” + </p> + <p> + Another moment of utter bewilderment; small Eyton-Eytons gazing + round-eyed; the girl white, heaving; the woman dully red. Then “Pack your + boxes, Miss!” + </p> + <h3> + XI. + </h3> + <p> + She was upon the platform at Victoria Station, a porter asking commands + for her box, before she realised what she had done. A few pounds in her + purse, and infinitely worse off now than a week before. Then she had no + “character”; now employment was to be sought with Mrs. Eyton-Eyton as her + “last place.” She would not go back to Missus and Tim. Though they had + tried to conceal it, secretly, she had seen, they were relieved when she + left. They had not accommodation for her; latterly she had dispossessed of + his bed a sailor son on leave from his ship. + </p> + <p> + She left her box in the cloak-room; turned down Wilton Road from the + station; penetrated the narrow thoroughfares between Lupus Street and the + river; secured a bedroom with Mrs. Japes at six shillings a week. + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram at the Agency would have no more to do with her; had received a + furious letter from Mrs. Eyton-Eyton; showed in the ledger a cruel line of + red ink ruled through the page that began “Name: Mary Humfray,” and ended + “Salary:—” + </p> + <p> + “But I don't know a soul in London.” + </p> + <p> + “You had a very comfortable place. You threw it away. I have a reputation + for reliable employees which I cannot afford to risk.” + </p> + <p> + A bow closed the interview. + </p> + <h3> + XII. + </h3> + <p> + It was her landlady's husband, an unshaven, shifty-looking horror, who + dealt her, as it seemed to her then, the last furious blow. + </p> + <p> + Returning one evening after an aimless search for employment in shops that + had earned her rude laughter for her utter inexperience and her + presumption in supposing her services could be of any value, she found + Mrs. Japes in convulsive tears, speechless. + </p> + <p> + What was the matter? Hysterical jerks of the head towards the stairs. Up + to her room—the cause clear in her rifled box, its contents + scattered across the floor, the little case in which with her pictures of + Mother and Dad she kept her money gone. + </p> + <p> + A little raid by Mr. Japes, it appeared, in which Mrs. Japes's property + had also suffered.... He had done it before ... a bad lot ... had done + time ... the rent overdue and the brokers coming in ... she'd best go ... + of course she could tell the police. + </p> + <p> + Of course she did not tell the police. The whole affair bewildered and + frightened her. + </p> + <p> + To another lodging three streets away.... Initiation by the new landlady + into the mysteries of pawnshops; gradual thinning of wardrobe.... + Answering of advertisements found in the public library in Great Smith + Street.... Long, feet-aching trudges to save omnibus fares.... Always the + same outcome. ... Experience?—None. References?—None.... + “Thank you; I'm afraid—I'm sure it's all right, but one has to be so + careful nowadays. Good morning.” ... Always the same outcome.... The idea + of writing to Ireland was hardly conceived. ... That life, those friends, + seemed of a period that was dead, done, gone—ages and ages ago.... + </p> + <h3> + XIII. + </h3> + <p> + Again it was a man who dealt the deeper blow—a gentlemanly-looking + person of whom in Wilton Road one evening she asked the way to an address + copied from the <i>Daily Telegraph</i>. Why, by an extraordinary + coincidence he was going that way himself, to that very house!—flat, + rather. Yes, it was his mother who was advertising for a lady-help. Might + he show her the way? ... It would be very kind of him. + </p> + <p> + Through a maze of streets, he chatting pleasantly enough, though putting + now and then curious little questions which she could not understand.... + Hadn't he seen her at the Oxford one night? ... Assuredly he had not; what + was the Oxford? + </p> + <p> + He laughed, evidently pleased. “Gad, you do keep it up!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + So to a great pile of flats; up a circular stair. + </p> + <p> + “You understand why I can't use the lift?” he said. “They're beastly + particular here.” + </p> + <p> + She did not understand; supposed it was some question of expense. Thus to + a door where he took out a latch-key. + </p> + <p> + It was then for the first moment that a sudden doubt, a horror, took her, + trembling her limbs. + </p> + <p> + She looked up at the figures painted over the door. + </p> + <p> + “Why, it is the wrong number!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + He had turned the key. “Lord! you do keep it up!” he laughed, his hand + suddenly about her arm. + </p> + <p> + Then she knew, and dragged back, sweating with the horror of the thing. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, let me go—let me go!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, chuck it, you little ass!” His arm was about her waist now, dragging + her; his face close. + </p> + <p> + With a sudden twist and thrust that took him by surprise she wrenched from + his grasp; was a flight of stairs away before he had recovered his wits; + across the hall and running—shaking, hysterical—down the + street. + </p> + <h3> + XIV. + </h3> + <p> + Thereafter men were a constant horror to her—adding a new and most + savage beast to the wolves of noise, of desolation and of despair that + bayed about her in this grinding city. Unable longer to face them, she + went again to Miss Ram at the Agency—almost upon her knees, crying, + trembling, pitching her tale from the man with the dent in his hat to the + man in Wilton Road. + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram was moved to the original depths that lay beneath her grim + exterior; had never realised the actual circumstances; would do what she + could; no need to be frightened. + </p> + <p> + Two days later Mary was unpacking her box at 14 Palace Gardens. No + sharpness, no slight now could prick her spirit; she had learned too well; + she would not face those streets again. + </p> + <p> + That was eighteen months, close upon two years ago. Wounds were healing + now; old-time brightness was coming back to laugh at present discomforts. + It was only now and again—as now—that she, driven by some + sudden stress, allowed her mind backwards to wander—bruising itself + in those dark passages. + </p> + <p> + The cab stopped. She with a start came to the present; gulped a sob; was + herself. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater said: “Run in quickly and mix me a brandy-and-soda.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <h3> + Excursions In Vulgarity. + </h3> + <p> + A violent dispute with the cabman set that disturbed heart yet more wildly + thumping in Mrs. Chater's bosom; the sight of her husband uneasily mooning + in the dining-room heated her wrath to wilder bubblings. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Chater—a 'oly dam' terror in Mincing Lane, if his office-boy may + be quoted—was an astonishingly mild man in his own house. + </p> + <p> + He said brightly, noting with a shiver the gusty stress of his wife's + deportment: “You <i>drove</i> up, my dear?—And quite right, too,” he + hastily added, upon a sudden fear that his remark might be interpreted as + reproach. + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” Mrs. Chater's nose went into the brandy-and-soda. + </p> + <p> + “I saw you from the window,” her husband beamed. He repeated, “The + window,” and nervously pointed at it. There was a strained atmosphere in + the room, and he was a little frightened. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Oh!</i>” Out from the brandy-and-soda came the nose; down went the + glass with an emphasising bang: “<i>Oh!</i>” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Chater gave a startled little jump. He saw, immediately he had spoken, + the misfortune into which his admission had plunged him; the bang of the + glass twanged his already apprehensive nerves, and he jerked out, + “Certainly, my dear,” without any clear grasp as to what he was affirming. + </p> + <p> + “If you had been a <i>man</i>,” said Mrs. Chater, speaking with a slow and + extraordinary bitterness—“if you had been a <i>man</i>, you would + have come out and helped me.” + </p> + <p> + “But you had got out when I came to the window, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “With the <i>cabman</i>, I mean.” Mrs. Chater fired the word with alarming + ferocity. “With the <i>cabman</i>. Did you not see that violent brute + insulting me?” + </p> + <p> + It was precisely because he had observed the episode that Mr. Chater had + kept well behind the curtain; but he did not adduce the fact. + </p> + <p> + “I certainly did not,” he affirmed. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I expect you took precious good care not to. You've done the same + thing before. Never to my dying day shall I forget the figure you cut + outside Swan and Edgar's last Christmas. Making me—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Chater implored: “Oh, my dear, don't drag that up again!” + </p> + <p> + “But I <i>do</i> drag it up!” Mrs. Chater a little unnecessarily cried. “I + <i>do</i> drag it up, and I shall always drag it up—making me a fool + as you did! I was ashamed of you. I was—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Chater nervously wiped his moist palms with his pocket handkerchief: + “I've told you over and over again, my dear, that I never understood the + circumstances. There was a great crowd, and I was very much pushed about. + If I had known the circumstances—” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater hurled back the word at him: “Circumstances!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” the agitated man replied, ticking off the points on soft + fingers, “my dear, I had gone to the window of Swan and Edgar's, leaving + you, as you expressly desired, to pay the man <i>yourself</i>. When I came + <i>back</i> to you, what I gathered was that the man was entitled to a + further <i>sixpence</i> and that you had no <i>change</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater lashed herself with the recollection: “Nothing of the kind!” + she burst. “Nothing of the kind! What did the man say to you when you + asked what was the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “I quite forget.” + </p> + <p> + “You do not forget.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, I really and truly do forget.” + </p> + <p> + “For the hundredth time, then, let me tell you. He said that if you pushed + your ugly mug into it he would knock off your blooming head.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he say <i>mug?</i>” asked Mr. Chater, assuming the air of one who, + knowing this at the time, would have committed a singularly ferocious + murder. + </p> + <p> + “Well you know that he <i>did</i> say mug—<i>ugly</i> mug. Was <i>that</i> + a thing for a man of spirit to take quietly? Was <i>that</i> a thing for a + wife to hear bawled at her husband in the open street with the + commissionaire grinning behind his hand? To my dying day I shall never + forget my humiliation when you handed him sixpence.” + </p> + <p> + The unhappy husband murmured: “I do so wish you could, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater shook, handled her troops with the skill of a perfect + tactician, and hurled in the attack upon another quarter. + </p> + <p> + She said: “Ah, now insult me! Insult me before Miss Humfray! That's right! + <i>That's</i> right! That's what I'm accustomed to. We all have our cross + to bear, as the vicar said last Sunday, and open insult from my husband is + mine. I can't complain; I married you with my eyes open.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater revealed this secret of her girlhood in a voice which implied + that most young women go through the ceremony with their eyes tightly + closed, mixed a second brandy-and-soda for her shattered nerves, swallowed + it with the air of one draining a poison flask by way of happy release + from martyrdom, banged down the glass, and, before her amazed husband + could open his lips, hammered in the attack from a third quarter. + </p> + <p> + “Little you would have cared,” cried she, “if a miracle had not saved my + life this afternoon!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Chater stood aghast. “My dearest! Saved you! From what?” + </p> + <p> + His dearest bitterly inquired: “What does it matter to you? You take no + interest. If my battered corpse—” Swept to tremendous heights by the + combined forces of her agitation, her imagination, and her two + brandys-and-sodas, she rose, pointed though the window. “If my battered + corpse had been carried up those steps by two policemen this very + afternoon, what would you have done, I wonder?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Chater, apprehension creeping among the roots of his hair, affirmed + that he would have dropped dead in the precise spot at which he happened + to be standing at the moment. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater trumpeted “Never!”—dropped to her chair, and continued. + “You would have been glad.” Her voice shook. “Glad—and in all this + wide world only my Bob and my blessed lambs in the nursery would have wept + o'er my body.” + </p> + <p> + Of so melancholy a character was the picture thus presented to her mind, + augmenting her previous agitation, that the tumult within her welled + damply through her eyes, with noisy distress through her lips. + </p> + <p> + Patting her distressed back, imploring her to calm, Mr. Chater begged some + account of the catastrophe from which she had escaped. + </p> + <p> + Between convulsive sobs she told him, he bridging the hiatuses of emotion + with “Oh-dear-oh-dears,” in which alarm and sympathy were nicely mingled. + </p> + <p> + Painting details with a masterly hand, “And there was I alone,” she + concluded—“alone, at the mercy of a wild horse and a drunken + cabman.” + </p> + <p> + “But Miss Humfray was with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Humfray managed to jump out and leave me.” + </p> + <p> + Through all this scene—in one form or another a matter of daily + occurrence, and therefore not to arouse interest—Mary had stood + waiting its cessation and her orders. Mr. Chater turned upon her. + Naturally disposed to be kind to the girl, he yet readily saw in his + wife's statement a way of escape from the castigation he had been + enduring. As the small boy who has been kicked by the bully will with + delighted relief rush to the bully's aid when the kicks are at length + turned to another, urging him on so that he may forget his first prey, so + Mr. Chater, delighted at his fortune, eagerly joined in turning his wife's + wrath to Mary's head. For self-preservation, at whatever cost to another, + is the most compelling of instincts: its power great in proportion as we + have allowed our fleshly impulses to master us. If, when they prompt, we + coldly and impersonally regard them, find them unworthy and crush them + back humiliated, they become in time disciplined—wither and die. In + proportion as we permit them, upon the other hand, they come in time to + drive us with a fierceness that cannot be checked. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Chater had disciplined no single impulse that came to him with his + flesh. + </p> + <p> + In pious horror he turned upon the girl. + </p> + <p> + “Managed to jump out!” he exclaimed, speaking as one re-echoing a horror + hardly to be believed. + </p> + <p> + “Managed to jump out! Miss Humfray, I would not have thought it of you!” + </p> + <p> + She cried: “Mr. Chater, I fell!” + </p> + <p> + Disregarding, and with a deeper note of pained reproach, he continued: “So + many ties, I should have thought, would have bound you to my wife in such + an emergency—the length of time you have been with us; the + unremitting kindness she has shown you, treating you as one of ourselves, + in sickness tending you, bountifully feeding and clothing you, going out + of her way to make you happy. Oh, Miss Humfray!” + </p> + <p> + The strain on his invention paused him. Mrs. Chater, moved by this + astonishing revelation of her love, assumed an air in keeping—an air + of some pain but no surprise at such ingratitude. She warmed to this + husband who, if no hero in the matter of ferocious cabmen, could at least + champion her upon occasion. + </p> + <p> + Mary cried: “But I did not jump out! Indeed I did not, Mr. Chater; I + fell.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater said <i>“Fell!”</i> With sublime forbearance she added, “Never + mind; the incident is past.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Chater, you must know that I fell out. I was leaning out—you + had asked me to see the name of the street—when the horse stumbled.” + </p> + <p> + “It is curious,” said Mrs. Chater, with a pained little smile, “that you + managed to 'fall out' before the horse could recover and bolt.” + </p> + <p> + “Very, very curious,” Mr. Chater echoed. + </p> + <p> + How hateful they were, the girl felt. She broke out: “I—” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Humfray, that is enough. Help me upstairs. I will lie down.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Chater jumped brightly to the bell. “My dear, do; I will send you a + hot-water bottle.” + </p> + <p> + His wife recalled the shortcomings for which she had been taking him to + task. “Send a fiddlestick,” she rapped; “on a boiling day like this!” + </p> + <p> + She took Mary's arm; leaning heavily, passed from the room. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <h3> + Excursions In The Mind Of A Heroine. + </h3> + <p> + Her mistress disrobed, head among pillows, slippered, coverleted, + eau-de-Cologne on temples, with closed eyes inviting sleep to lull the + tumults of the day. Mary climbed to her room. + </p> + <p> + About her mouth there was a ridiculous twitching; and as she watched it in + the mirror she strove to wrap herself in the armour in which she had + learned to take buffetings. + </p> + <p> + To be dispassionate was the salve she had schooled herself to use upon a + wounded spirit—to regard this Mary with the comically twitching face + whom now she saw in the glass as a second person whose sufferings might be + coldly regarded and dissected. + </p> + <p> + It is a most admirable accomplishment. Nothing is so easy as to be + philosophic upon the cares of another—nothing so easy as to wax + impatient with an acquaintance who allows himself to be overridden by + troubles and pains which appear to us of trifling moment. If, then, we can + school ourselves to regard the figure that bears our name as one person, + and our ego as another, we have at least a chance of chiding that figure + out of all the fancied sufferings it may undergo. + </p> + <p> + With some success Mary had studied the art; now gave that + Mary-in-the-glass who stood before her a healthy reproof. + </p> + <p> + “The ridiculous thing you did,” Mary-in-the-glass was told—“the + ridiculous thing you did to make yourself miserable was to go thinking + about—about Ireland.” + </p> + <p> + The mouth of Mary-in-the-glass ominously twitched. + </p> + <p> + “There you go again. And it is so absolutely forbidden to think about + that. Whatever's the use of it?” + </p> + <p> + Mary-in-the-glass could adduce no reason, and must be prodded. + </p> + <p> + “Does it do you any good? Does it do <i>them</i> any good, do you suppose, + to know that you can never think of them without making yourself unhappy?” + </p> + <p> + Mary-in-the-glass attempted a weak quibble; was instantly snapped. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not saying you are <i>never</i> to think of them. Goodness knows what + I should do if I did not. It's all right to think of them when you are + happy and they can share the happiness with you; but, when you choose to + be idiotically miserable, that's the time you are not to go whining + anywhere near them—understand? You only make them unhappy and make + your troubles worse. Troubles! if you can't see the fun of Mrs. Chater, + you must be a wretched sort of person. Her face when the cab brought her + back! And trying to feel her heart! And her rage with that little worm of + a Mr. Chater! Can't you see the fun of it instead of crying over it?” + </p> + <p> + Mary-in-the-glass could. The successive recollections induced the + prettiest dimples on her face. She was at once forgiven. + </p> + <p> + Indeed, to snuggle back into her and to merge into her again was just now + very desirable to the censorious Mary-outside-the-glass. For, merged in + her sentimental and romantic personality, a most delectable line of + thought could be pursued—a delectable line, since along this trail + was to be encountered that stranger who had caught her in her wild + ejection from the cab. + </p> + <p> + Sinking in a chair, Mary adventured upon it; she was instantly met. + </p> + <p> + Mary-outside-the-glass essayed her best to prevent the interview. “Poof!” + Mary-outside-the-glass, that cold young person, sneered. “Poof! You little + idiot! A stranger with whom you spoke for five minutes, whom you will + never again see, and from whose recollections you have most certainly + passed unless to be recalled as a joke—perhaps to some other girl!” + (A nasty dig that, but they are monsters these Marys-outside-the-glass.) + “Why, you must be a donkey to think about him! For goodness' sake come + away before you make yourself too utterly ridiculous! You won't. Well, + perhaps you will try to recall the figure you must have cut in his eyes? + Do you remember what you must have looked like as you shot out of the cab + like a sack of straw? Pretty sight, eh? And can you imagine the expression + on your face as you banged into his arms? Charming you must have looked, + mustn't you? And can you by any means realise the idiot you must have + looked when Mrs. Chater came up and swept you off like an escaped puppy, + recaptured and in for a whipping? Striking figure you cut, didn't you? You + didn't happen to peep back through the little window at the back of the + cab and see him laughing, I suppose? Ah, you should have looked....” + </p> + <p> + And so on. This was the attitude of that cold, calculating, dispassionate + Mary-outside-the-glass. But Mary smothered the voice—would not hear + a word of it. Completely she became Mary-in-the-glass, that sentimental + young woman, and in that personality tripped along the path of thought + where stood her stranger. + </p> + <p> + Delectably she relived the encounter. Paced down the street, took again + his arm; without a fault recalled his words, without a check gave her + replies; recalled the pitch of his voice to the nicest note, struck again + the light in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Now why? She had met other men; in Ireland had thrice wounded her tender + heart by negations that had caused three suitors most desperate anguish. + None had awakened in her a deeper interest; and yet here was a stranger—suddenly + encountered, as suddenly left—who in her mind had appropriated a + track which she was eager to make a well-beaten path. Why? + </p> + <p> + But Mary-in-the-glass, that sentimental young woman, was no prober of + emotions. They veiled the hard business of commonplace life; and amid them + mistily she now floated afar into dim features where her stranger, + stranger no more, walked with her hand in hand. + </p> + <p> + There was attempt at first to construct an actual re-encounter. + Mary-in-the-glass, that romantic young woman, very speciously pointed out + that in London when once you see a man you may reasonably suppose that you + will again meet him. For in London one does not aimlessly wander; one has + some set purpose and traverses a thousand times the same streets, crossing + daily at the same points as though upon the pursuit of a chalked line. + Mary-in-the-glass, therefore, constructing a re-encounter, happened to be + strolling along the scene of the accident, and lo! there was he! + </p> + <p> + Unhappily this vision was transient. Mary-outside-the-glass, that cold + young woman, got in a word here that erased the picture. The square where + the cab crashed was too far afield to take the children for their walk; + holiday was a boon rarely granted and never granted at the particular hour + of the catastrophe—the only time of day at which, according to the + chalked-line theory, she might reasonably expect to find the stranger in + the same spot. + </p> + <p> + But Mary did not brood long upon this melancholy obstacle; drove away + Mary-outside-the-glass; became again Mary-in-the-glass. And they are + impossible creatures these Marys-in-the-glass. They will approach an + unbridged chasm across which no Mary-out-side could by any means + adventure, and, floating the gulf, will deliriously roam in the fields + beyond. + </p> + <p> + So now. And in that dream-world of the musing brain Mary with her stranger + sublimely wandered. With her form and his she peopled all the favourite + spots she knew; contrived others and strolled in them; introduced other + persons, and marked their comment on her dear companion. + </p> + <p> + It was he whom she made to do mighty deeds in those misty fields; of + herself hers were merely a girl's gentle fancies, held modest by her sex's + natural desire to be loved for itself alone—not for big behaviour. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <h3> + Excursions In A Nursery. + </h3> + <p> + The loud bang of a door was the gong that called Mary back from those + pleasant fields. They whirled from her, leaving her in sudden realisation + of the material. + </p> + <p> + She glanced at the clock. + </p> + <p> + “Goodness!” cried she, and fell to scattering her outdoor finery at a + speed dangerous under any but the deftest fingers. Into a skirt of black + and a simple blouse she slipped, and down, skimming the stairs, to where + her charges bided their bedtime. + </p> + <p> + Opening the nursery door she paused upon the threshold with a little “Oh!” + of surprise. There was a reek of cigar smoke; its origin between the lips + of a burly young man who stood drumming a tune upon the window-pane. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bob Chater turned at her entry. “I've been waiting for you a long + time,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She asked, “Whatever for?” and in her tone there was a chill. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't I tell you yesterday that I was coming to see the kids tubbed?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't think you meant it.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bob Chater laughed. “Well, now you see that I did. I've been looking + forward to this all day.” + </p> + <p> + Plainly she was perturbed. She said: “Mr. Chater, I really would rather + you did not, if you don't mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, but I do mind, d'you see? I mind very much indeed. It would be the + bitterest disappointment.” + </p> + <p> + His playfulness sat ill upon him. This was a stout young man, black-eyed, + dark-moustached, with a thick and heavy look about him. + </p> + <p> + She would not catch his mood. “I am sure when I ask you—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you're jolly well wrong, you know,” he laughed; “'cause I ain't + going.” + </p> + <p> + Mary flushed slightly; moved to the hearthrug where sat David and Angela, + her small charges, watching, from their toys, the scene. + </p> + <p> + It occurred to Mr. Bob Chater that she was annoyed. + </p> + <p> + “I say, be decent to a fellow, Miss Humfray,” he said. “Look here, I + hadn't seen the kids for two years when I came back yesterday. They hardly + remember their kind big brother.” He addressed the small girl whose round + eyes, moving from speaker to speaker since Mary had entered, were now upon + him. “Do you, Angela?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I—hate—you,” Angela told him, in the slow utterance of one + giving completest effect to a carefully weighed sentiment. + </p> + <p> + With equal impressiveness, David, seated beside her, lent his authority to + the statement. “I—hate—you—too,” he joined. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bob Chater laughed a little stupidly. + </p> + <p> + Mary cried: “Oh, Angela! Oh, David! How can you speak like that!” + </p> + <p> + “He is perfectly abom'able,” Angela said, unmoved. “He made Davie cry. He + trod on Davie's beetle.” + </p> + <p> + The cracked corpse of a mechanical beetle, joy of David's heart, was + produced in evidence; its distressed owner reddening ominously at this + renewed recollection of the calamity. + </p> + <p> + Mary took the sad pieces tenderly. “Silly children! He never meant to + break it. Oh, such silly children!” + </p> + <p> + Angela protested, “He did! He did! He put his foot over it while it was + running, and stopped it. He told David to get it away if he could, and + David bit his leg, and he said 'Damn you!' and crushed it crack.” + </p> + <p> + Mary whipped a glance at the murderer. She ignored the evidence. + “To-morrow!” said she. “Why, what fun! To-morrow we'll play hospital like + we did when Christabel broke her arm. We'll make Mr. Beetle just as well + as ever he was before!” + </p> + <p> + “I'll be doctor!” cried David, transported into delight. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and Angela nurse. Look, we'll put poor Mr. Beetle on the mantelpiece + to-night, right out of the draughts. If he got a draught into that crack + in his back, goodness knows what wouldn't happen. He must eat slops like + Christabel did. <i>What</i> fun! Now, bed—<i>bustle!</i>” + </p> + <p> + Their adored Mary had restored confidence. They clung about her. + </p> + <p> + “It was a pure accident,” explained Mr. Bob Chater, gloomily watching this + scene. “I'll buy you another to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “There!” Mary cried. “Think of that!” + </p> + <p> + David reflected upon it without emotion. He regarded his big brother + sullenly; sullenly said, “I don't want another.” + </p> + <p> + Mary cried brightly: “Rubbish! Come, kiss your brother good-night, and say + 'thank you!' Both of you. Quick as lightning!” + </p> + <p> + They hung back. + </p> + <p> + Mary had obtained so complete a command of their affections that her word + was the wise law which, ordinarily, they had come unquestioningly to + accept. In their short lives David and Angela had experienced a procession + of nurses, of nursery-governesses, of lady-helps, each one of whom + received or gave her month's notice within a few weeks of arrival, and + against whom they had conducted a sullen or a violent war. From the first + it had been different with Miss Humfray. As was their custom (for this + constant change tried tempers) upon the very day of her arrival they had + met her with frank hostility, had declared mutiny at her first command. + But her reception of this attitude they found a new and astonishing + experience. She had not been shocked, had not been angry, had ventured no + threat to tell their mother. Instead, at the outbreak of defiance, she + went into the gayest and most infectious laughter, kissed them—and + they had capitulated before they realised the event. + </p> + <p> + A second attempt at mutiny, made upon the following day, met with a + reception equally novel. Again this pretty Miss Humfray had laughed, but + this time had fully sympathised with their view of the point at issue and + had made of the affair a most entrancing game. She, behold, was a pirate + captain; they were the rebellious crew. In five minutes they had marooned + her upon the desert island represented by the hearthrug; had rowed away + with faces which, under her instructions, were properly stern; and only + when she waved the white flag of truce had they taken her aboard again. + Meanwhile the subject of the quarrel had been forgotten. + </p> + <p> + Never a dispute arose thereafter. They idolised this pretty Miss Humfray: + whatsoever she said was clearly right. + </p> + <p> + Here, however, was a dangerous conflict of opinion. They hung back. + </p> + <p> + “Quickly,” Mary repeated. “Kiss him, and say thank-you quickly, or there + will be no story when you are in bed.” + </p> + <p> + It was a terrific price to pay; their troubled faces mirrored the conflict + of decision. + </p> + <p> + David found solution. In his slow, solemn voice, “You kiss him first,” he + said. Miss Humfray always took their medicine first, and David argued from + the one evil necessity to this other. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bob Chater laughed delightedly. “That's a brilliant idea!” he cried; + came two strides towards Mary; put a hand upon her arm. + </p> + <p> + So sudden, so unexpected was his movement, that by the narrowest chance + only did she escape his purpose. A jerk of her head, and he had mouthed at + the air two inches from her face. + </p> + <p> + She shook her arm free. “Oh!” she cried; and in the exclamation there was + that which would have given a nicer man pause. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bob Chater was nothing abashed. A handsome face and a bold air had + made conquests easy to him. It was an axiom of his that a girl who worked + for her living by that fact proclaimed flirtation to be agreeable to her—at + all events with such as he. Chance had so shaped affairs that this was the + first time his theory had found disproof. He saw she was offended; so much + the more tickling; conquest was thereby the more enticing. + </p> + <p> + He laughed; said he was only “rotting.” + </p> + <p> + Mary did not reply. The command to kiss their brother went by default; she + hurried her charges through the door to the adjoining night nursery. + </p> + <p> + When they were started upon undressing she came back. + </p> + <p> + “You're going to let me see you tub them?” Bob asked her. + </p> + <p> + Busy replacing toys in cupboards, she did not reply. + </p> + <p> + “You're not angry, are you?” + </p> + <p> + She gave him no answer. + </p> + <p> + Bob Chater discarded the laugh from his tone. “If you are angry, I'm very + sorry. You must have known I was only fooling. It was only to make the + kids laugh.” + </p> + <p> + So far as was possible she kept her back to him. + </p> + <p> + The continued slight pricked him. His voice hardened. “When I have the + grace to apologise, I think you might have the grace to accept it.” + </p> + <p> + Mary said in low tones: “If you meant only to make them laugh, of course I + believe you. It is all right.” + </p> + <p> + “Good. Well, now, may I see them tubbed?” + </p> + <p> + “I have told you I would rather not.” + </p> + <p> + “Dash it all, Miss Humfray, you're rather unkind, aren't, you? Here have I + been away nearly two years—I've been travelling on the Continent for + the firm-you know that, don't you?” + </p> + <p> + She said she had heard Mr. and Mrs. Chater talking of it. + </p> + <p> + “Well, and yet you won't let me come near my darling little sister and my + sweet little brother to tell 'em all about it?” + </p> + <p> + “But I'm not keeping you from them, Mr. Chater. You have had plenty of + time.” + </p> + <p> + “Time! Why, I only got back yesterday!” + </p> + <p> + “You have been in here this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, they were shy. They're better when you are here.” + </p> + <p> + She had finished her task, and she turned to him. “Mr. Chater, you know I + could not keep David and Angela from you even if I dreamed of doing such a + thing. Only, I say I would rather you did not come in while I bath them, + that is all.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but why?” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Chater would not like it for one thing, I feel sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's all rot. Mother wouldn't mind—anyway, I do as I like in + this house.” + </p> + <p> + From all she had heard of Mrs. Chater's beloved Bob, Mary guessed this to + be true. Long prior to his arrival she had been prejudiced against him; + acquaintance emphasised the prophetic impression. + </p> + <p> + “Another night, then,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He felt he was winning. No girl withstood him long. + </p> + <p> + “No, to-night. Another thing—I want to know you better. This + arrangement is all new to me. There was a nurse here in your place when I + went. I've hardly spoken to you. Have you ever been abroad?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll tell you—and the kids—some of my adventures while + you're tubbing 'em. Lead on.” + </p> + <p> + She was at the night-nursery door. Evidently this man would not see her + conventional reason for not wishing him at the tubbing. Angela had grown a + biggish girl since he went away. + </p> + <p> + She said, “Please not to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm jolly well coming,” he chuckled. + </p> + <p> + The lesson of dependence was wilfully forgotten. Mary agreed with Angela + and David: she hated this Bob. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said sharply, “you are not.” + </p> + <p> + He had thrown his cigar into the grate; taken out another; stooped to the + hearth to scratch a match. His back was to her; to him all her tone + conveyed was that a “rag” was on hand. + </p> + <p> + “We'll see,” he laughed; struck the match. + </p> + <p> + She stepped swiftly within the door; closed it. + </p> + <p> + Bob Chater laughed again; ran across. + </p> + <p> + The lock clicked as she turned the key. + </p> + <p> + “Let me in!” he cried, rattling the handle. “Let me in!” + </p> + <p> + The splash of water answered him. + </p> + <p> + He thumped the panel. “Open the door!” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Angela,” he heard her say, “quick as lightning with that chimmy.” + </p> + <p> + Bob's face darkened; he damned beneath his breath. Then with a laugh he + turned away. “I'm going to have some fun with that girl,” he told himself; + and on the way downstairs, her pretty face and figure in his mind, pleased + himself with vicious anticipation. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> + <h3> + Excursions At A Dinner-Table. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + Two distressing reasons combined to compel Mrs. Chater to give Mary place + at the evening meal. There was the aggravating fact that mothers'-helps, + just as if they were ordinary people, must be fed; there was also the + contingency that servants most strongly objected to serving a special meal—even + “on a tray”—to one who was not of the family, yet who had airs above + the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + Except, then, when there were guests Miss Humfray must be accommodated at + late dinner. Mrs. Chater considered it annoying, yet found in it certain + comfortable advantages—as sympathy from friends: “Mustn't it be + rather awkward sometimes, Mrs. Chater?” A plaintive shrug would illustrate + the answer: “Well, it is, of course, very awkward sometimes; but one must + put up with it. That class of person takes offence so easily, you know; + and I always try to treat my lady-helps as well as possible.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure you do, Mrs. Chater. How grateful they should be!” And this time + a sad little laugh would illustrate: “Oh, one hardly expects gratitude + nowadays, does one?” + </p> + <p> + Mary at dinner must observe certain rules, however. Certain dishes—a + little out of season, perhaps, or classed as luxuries—were borne + triumphantly past her by a glad parlour-maid acting upon a frown and a + glance that Mrs. Chater signalled. Certain occasions, again, when private + matters were to be discussed, were heralded by “Miss Humfray,” in an + inflexion of voice that set Mary to fold her napkin and from the room. + </p> + <p> + The girl greeted these early dismissals with considerable relief. Dinner + was to her a nightly ordeal whose atmosphere swept appetite sky-high—took + the savour from meats, dried the throat. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + Descending to the dining-room upon this evening, her normal shrinking from + the meal was considerably augmented. On the previous night—the first + upon which Mr. Bob Chater's legs had partnered hers beneath the table—his + eyes (like some bold gallant popping out on modesty whenever it dared peep + from the doorway) had captured her glance each time she ventured look up + from her plate. The episode of the nursery was equivalent to having + slapped the gallant's face, and the re-encounter was proportionately + uncomfortable. + </p> + <p> + Taking her place she was by sheer nervousness impelled to meet his gaze—so + heavily freighted it was as to raise a sudden flush to her cheek. Her eyes + fled round to Mrs. Chater, received a look that questioned the blush, + drove it duskier; through an uncomfortable half-hour she kept her face + towards her plate. + </p> + <p> + It was illuminative of the relations between husband and wife that Mrs. + Chater carved; her husband dealt the sweets. The carving knife is the + domestic sceptre of authority: when it is wielded by the woman, the man, + you will find, is consort rather than king. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + Upon the previous evening Mr. Bob Chater had led the conversation. + To-night he was indisposed for the position—would not take it + despite his mother's desperate attempts to board the train of his ideas + and by it be carried to scenes of her son's adventures. A dozen times she + presented her ticket; as often Bob turned her back at the barrier. + </p> + <p> + It was a rare event this refusal of his to carry passengers. So loudly did + he whistle as a rule as to attract all in the vicinity, convinced that + there was an important train by which it would be agreeable to travel. + </p> + <p> + For Mr. Bob Chater was a loud young man, emanating a swaggering air that + the term “side” well fitted. To have some conceit of oneself is an + excellent affair. The possession is a keel that gives to the craft a + dignified balance upon the stream of life—prevents it from being + sailed too close to mud; helps maintain stability in sudden gale. Other + craft are keelless—they are canoes; bobbing, unsteady, likely to + capsize in sudden emergency; prone to drift into muddy waters; liable to + be swept anywhither by any current. Others, again—and Mr. Bob Chater + was of these—are over-freighted upon one quarter or another: they + sail with a list. Amongst well-trimmed boats these learn in time not to + adventure, since here they are greeted with ridicule or with contempt; yet + among the keelless fleets they have a position of some authority; holding + it on the same principle as that by which among beggars he who has a coin—even + though base—is accounted king. + </p> + <p> + Bob Chater's list was ego-wards. His mighty “I”—I am, I do, I say, I + know, I think—bulged from him, hanging from his voice, his glance, + his gesture, his walk. In it Mrs. Chater bathed; to be carried along in + the train of his mighty “I” was delectable to her. But to-night she could + not effect the passage. + </p> + <p> + A final effort she made to get aboard. “And in St. Petersburg!” she + tempted. “I wonder if you ever saw the <i>Tsar</i> when you were in St. + Petersburg?” + </p> + <p> + Bob drove her back: “St. Petersburg's a loathsome place.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater tried to squeeze through. “So <i>gay</i>, they say.” + </p> + <p> + Bob slammed the gate. “I wish you'd <i>tell</i> me something instead of + expecting <i>me</i> to do all the talking. I want to hear all that's been + going on here while I've been away, but I'm hanged if I can find out.” + </p> + <p> + A little mortified, Mrs. Chater said: “I've hardly seen you, dear, except + at meals”—then threw the onus for her son's lack of local gossip + upon her husband. Addressing him, “You've been with Bob all the morning,” + she told him. “I wonder you haven't given him all the news. But, there! I + suppose you've done nothing but question him about what business he's + done!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Chater, startled at the novelty of being drawn into table conversation + while his son and his wife were present, dropped his spoon with a splash + into his soup, wiped his coat, frowned at the parlour-maid, cleared his + throat, and, to gain time to determine whether he had courage to say that + which was burning within him, threw out an “Eh?” for his pursuing wife to + Worry. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater pounced upon it; shook it. “What I said was that I suppose + you've been doing nothing but question poor Bob about what he has done for + the firm while he's been away.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Chater nerved himself to declare his mind. “There wasn't very much to + question him about,” he said. + </p> + <p> + His words—outcome of views forcibly expressed by his partners in + Mincing Lane that morning—were the foolhardy action of one who pokes + a tigress with a stick. + </p> + <p> + The tigress shook herself. “Now, I wonder what you mean by <i>that</i>?” + she challenged. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Chater dropped the stick; precipitantly fled. “Of course it was all + new to Bob,” he granted, throwing a bone. + </p> + <p> + Very much to his alarm the tigress ignored the bone; rushed after him. + “All you seem to think about,” cried she, “is making the boy slave. He's + never had a proper holiday since he left school, and yet the very first + time he goes off to see the world you must be fidgeting yourself to death + all the time that he's not pushing the firm sufficiently; and immediately + he comes back you must start cross-examining just as if he was an + office-boy—not a word about his health or his pleasure. Oh, no! of + course not!” + </p> + <p> + Squirming in misery, Mr. Chater remarked that he had his partners to + consider. “I'm only too glad that Bob should enjoy himself—only too + glad. But you must remember, my dear, that part of his expenses for this + trip was paid for by the firm—the <i>firm</i>. He was to call on + foreign houses—” + </p> + <p> + The tigress opened her mouth for fresh assault. Mr. Chater hurriedly + thrust in a bone. “I don't say he hasn't done a great deal for us—not + at all; I'd be the last to say that. What I say is that in duty to my + partners I must take the first opportunity to ask him a few questions + about it. Bob sees that himself; don't you, Bob?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do let's keep shop off the table,” Bob snarled. “Fair sickens me this + never getting away from the office.” + </p> + <p> + “There you are!” Mrs. Chater cried. “There you are! Always business, + business, business—that's what <i>I</i> complain of.” + </p> + <p> + With astounding recklessness Mr. Chater mildly said: “My dear, you started + it.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater quivered: “Ah, put it on me! Put it on me! Somehow you always + manage to do that. Miss Humfray, when you've <i>quite</i> finished your + soup <i>then</i> perhaps Clarence can take the plates.” + </p> + <p> + Mary's thoughts, to the neglect of her duty, had crept away beneath cover + of these exchanges. Now she endured the disaster of amid silence clearing + her plate with four pairs of eyes fixed upon her. Clarence removed the + course; Mr. Chater, leaping as far as possible from the scene of his + ordeal, broke a new topic. + </p> + <p> + He enticed tentatively: “I saw a funny bit in the paper this morning.” + </p> + <p> + The tigress paused in the projection of another spring; sniffed + suspiciously. “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + “About that young Lord Comeragh,” Mr. Chater hurried on, delighted with + his success. “He was up at Marlborough Street police-court this morning—at + least his butler was; of course his lordship wouldn't go himself—charged + with furiously driving his motorcar; and who do you think was in the car + with him at the time? Ah!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater, naming a young lady who nightly advertised a pretty leg from + the chorus of a musical comedy, announced that she would not be surprised + if that was the person. Being told that it was none other, and that Mr. + Chater had heard in the City that morning that Lady Comeragh was taking + proceedings and had named the nicely-legged young lady the cause of + infidelity, became highly astonished and supremely diverted. + </p> + <p> + Conversation of a most delectable nature was by this means supplied. A pot + of savoury gossip, flavoured with scandal, was upon the table; and Mary, + lost to sight behind the cloud of steam that uprose as the three leaped + about it, finished her dinner undisturbed. + </p> + <p> + A nod bade her leave before dessert. As she passed out the signaller + spoke. “I want to see you,” Mrs. Chater said. “Wait for me in the + drawing-room.” + </p> + <p> + The command was unusual, and Mary, waiting as bid, worried herself with + surmises upon it. She prayed it did not mean she was to soothe Mr. Bob + Chater's digestion with lullabies upon the piano; that it boded an + unpleasant affair she was assured. + </p> + <p> + She did not err. Mrs. Chater came to her, dyspeptic-flushed, sternly + browed. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Humfray, I have one thing to say to you, no more. No explanations, + no excuses, please. I hear you have been trying to entertain my son in the + nursery this evening. If that, or anything like it, occurs again—You + understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Chater—” + </p> + <p> + A massive hand signalled Stop. “I said 'not a word.' That is all. Good + night.” + </p> + <p> + And Mary, crimson, to her room. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK III. + </h2> + <h3> + Of Glimpses at a Period of this History: of Love and of War. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_NOTE" id="link2H_NOTE"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Notes On The Building Of Bridges. + </h2> + <p> + Within the limits of this short section of our story we shall cram two + months of history, taking but a furtive peep or two at our personages as + they plod through it. + </p> + <p> + This is well within our power, since the position of the novelist in + regard to his characters may be compared with that of the destiny which in + the largest comedy moves to and fro mankind its actors. As destiny moves + its puppets, so the novelist moves his—upraising, debasing; + favouring, tormenting; creating, wiping from the page. + </p> + <p> + And of the pair the novelist is the more just. Has villainy in a novel + ever gone unpunished? Has virtue ever failed of its reward? Your novelist + is of all autocrats the most zealous of right and wrong. Villain may + through two-thirds of his career enjoy his wicked pleasures, exceedingly + prosper despite his baseness; but ever above him the cold eye of his judge + keeps watch, and in the end he is apportioned the most horrible deserts + that any could wish. Virtue may by the gods be hounded and harried till + the reader's heart is wrung. But spare your tears; before Finis is + written, down swoops the judge; the dogs are whipped off; Virtue is led to + fair pastures and there left smiling. + </p> + <p> + Contrasted with this autocrat of the printed page, the destiny whose + comedy began with the world and is indefinitely continued makes sorry + show. Here the wicked exceedingly flourish and keep at it to the end of + their chapter; here virtue, battling with tremendous waves of adversity, + is at last engulfed and miserably drowned. Truly, their fit rewards are + apportioned, we are instructed, after death. But there is something of a + doubt; the novelist, in regard to his characters, takes no risks. + </p> + <p> + Upon another head, moreover, the novelist shows himself the more kindly + autocrat. There is his power, so freely exercised, to bridge time. Whereas + destiny makes us to watch those in whom we are interested plod every inch + and step of their lives-over each rut, through each swamp, up each + hill,-the novelist, upon his characters coming to places dull or too + difficult, immediately veils from us their weary struggles. Destiny will + never grant such a boon: we must watch our friends even when they bore us, + even when they cause us pain. Yet this boon is the commonest indulgence of + the novelist-as it now (to become personal) is mine. + </p> + <p> + I bridge two months. + </p> + <p> + And you must imagine this bridge as indeed a short and airy passage across + a valley, down into which the persons of our story must carefully climb, + across which they must plod, and up whose far side they must laboriously + scramble to meet us upon the level ground. For we are much in the + position, we novel readers, of village children curiously watching a + caravan of gipsies passing through their district. The gipsies (who stand + for our characters) plod wearily away along a bend of dusty road. The + children cease following, play awhile; then by a short-cut through the + fields overtake the travellers as again they come into the straight. + </p> + <p> + So now with you and me. We have no need to follow our gipsies down the + valley that takes two months in the traversing: we skip across the bridge. + </p> + <p> + But, leaning over, we may take a shot or two at them as here and there + they come into view. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <h3> + Excursions Beneath The Bridge. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + Thus we see the meeting again of George and Mary. + </p> + <p> + When the agitated young man on the day following the cab accident had + alighted from the omnibus at the bottom of Palace Gardens he was opposite + No. 14 by half-past ten; waiting till eleven; going, convinced she did not + live there; returning, upon the desperate hope that indeed she did; + waiting till twelve—and being most handsomely rewarded. + </p> + <p> + Her face signalled that she saw him, but her eyes gave no recognition—quickly + were averted from him; the windows behind her had eyes, she knew. + </p> + <p> + My agitated George, who had made a hasty step at the red flag that + fluttered on her cheeks, as hastily stepped away beneath the chill of her + glance; in tremendous perturbation turned and fled; in tremendous + perturbation turned and pursued. In Regent's Park he saw her produce a + brilliant pair of scarlet worsted reins, gay with bells; heard her hiss + like any proper groom as tandemwise she harnessed David and Angela, those + restive steeds. + </p> + <p> + The equipage was about to start—she had cracked her whip, clicked + her tongue—when with thumping heart, with face that matched the + flaming reins, hat in hand he approached; spoke the driver. + </p> + <p> + Her steeds turned about; with wide, unblinking eyes, searched his face and + hers. + </p> + <p> + “Your faces are very red,” Angela said. “Are you angry?” + </p> + <p> + “You have got very red faces,” David echoed. “Are you in a temper?” + </p> + <p> + Mary told them No; George said they were fine horses; felt legs; offered + to buy them. + </p> + <p> + His words purchased their hearts, which were more valuable. + </p> + <p> + After the drive they would return to the stable, which was this seat, Mary + told him; she could not stay to speak to him any longer. George declared + he was the stable groom and would wait. + </p> + <p> + Away they dashed at handsome speed, right round the inner circle; returned + more sedately, a little out of breath. There had been, moreover, an + accident: leader, it appeared, had fallen and cut his knees. + </p> + <p> + “I shied at a motor,” David explained, proud of the red blood now that the + agony was past. + </p> + <p> + George unharnessed them; dressed the wounds; scolded the coachman because + no feed had been brought for the horses; promised that to-morrow he would + bring some corn—bun corn. + </p> + <p> + “Will you come to-morrow?” Angela asked. + </p> + <p> + George glanced at Mary. “Yes,” he told them. + </p> + <p> + “Every to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “Every to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + Tremendous joy. Well delighted, they ran to a new game. + </p> + <p> + Every to-morrow ran but to three: George and Mary had by then exchanged + their histories. The pending examination was discussed, and Mary simply + would not speak to him if, wasting his time, he came daily to idle with + the children (so she expressed it). She would abandon the Park, she told + him—would take her charges to a Square gardens of which they had the + entry, where George might not follow. + </p> + <p> + George did not press the point. As he wrestled out the matter in the hours + between their meetings she was a fresh incentive to work. But once a week + he must be allowed to come: here he was adamant, and she gladly agreeable. + Saturday mornings was the time arranged. + </p> + <p> + Mary had been fearful at this first re-encounter that it would be the + last. The children would certainly tell their mother; Mrs. Chater would + certainly make an end to the acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + “Ask them not to tell,” George had suggested. + </p> + <p> + Impossible to think of such a thing: it would be to teach them deceit. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll ask them.” + </p> + <p> + “But that would be just as bad. No—if they tell, it cannot be + helped. And after all—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, after all...?” + </p> + <p> + “After all—what would it matter?” + </p> + <p> + George said: “It would matter to me—a lot.” + </p> + <p> + He glanced at her, but she was looking after Angela and David. He asked: + “Wouldn't it matter to you?” + </p> + <p> + She flushed a little; answered, with her eyes still averted towards the + children, “Why—why, of course I should mind. I mean—” + </p> + <p> + But there are meanings for which it is difficult to find clothes in which + they may decently take the air; and here the wardrobe of Mary's mind stood + wanting. + </p> + <p> + George enticed. “Do you mean you would be sorry not to—not to—” + </p> + <p> + He also found his wardrobe deficient. + </p> + <p> + Then Mary sent out her meaning, risking its decency. “Why, yes, I would be + sorry not to see you again; why should I mind saying so? I have liked + meeting you.” And, becoming timid at its appearance, she hurried after it + a cloak that would utterly disguise it. “I meet so few people,” she said. + </p> + <p> + But George was satisfied; she had said she would mind—nay, even + though she had not spoken it, her manner assured him that indeed she would + regret not again meeting him. It was a thought to hug, a memory to spur + his energies when they flagged over his studies; it was a brush to paint + his world in lively colours. + </p> + <p> + Nor, as the future occurred, need either have had apprehension that the + children would tell their mother and so set up an insurmountable barrier + between them. A previous experience had warned Angela that it were wise to + keep from her mother joys that were out of the ordinary run of events. + </p> + <p> + Returning homeward that day, a little in advance of Mary, she therefore + addressed her brother upon the matter. + </p> + <p> + “Davie, I hope that man will come to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope it, too.” + </p> + <p> + “We won't tell mother, Davie.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because mother'll say No.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because she <i>always</i> says No, stupid.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Davie, you <i>are</i> stupid! I don't know why; I only <i>know</i>. + Don't you remember that lady that used to talk to Miss Humf'ay and play + with us? Well, when we told mother, mother said No, didn't she? and the + lady played with those abom'able red-dress children that make faces + instead.” + </p> + <p> + “Will he play with the abom'able red-dress children that make faces if we + tell mother?” + </p> + <p> + “Of <i>course</i> he will.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “They always <i>do</i>, stupid.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + Angela ran back. “Oh, Miss Humf'ay, Davie is so <i>irrating!</i> He will + say <i>Why</i> ....” + </p> + <p> + There is a lesson for parents in that conversation, I suspect. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + Leaning from our bridge we may content ourselves with a hurried shot at + George, laboriously toiling at his books, sedulously attending his + classes, with his Mary spending glorious Saturday mornings that, as they + brought him nearer to knowledge of her, sent him from her yet more + fevered; and, straining towards another point, we will focus for an + instant upon Margaret his cousin, and Bill Wyvern, her adored. + </p> + <p> + Mr. William Wyvern had most vigorously whacked about among events since + that evening when his Margaret had composed her verses for George. At that + time a fellow-student with George at St. Peter's Hospital, he had now + abandoned the profession and was started upon the literary career (as he + named it) that long he had wished to follow. The change had been come by + with little difficulty. Professor Wyvern—that eminent biologist + whose fame was so tremendous that even now a normally forgetful Press yet + continued to paragraph him while he spent in absent-minded seclusion the + ebb of that life which at the flood had so mightily advanced knowledge—Professor + Wyvern was too much attached to his son, too docile in the hands of his + loving wife, to gainsay any wish that Bill might urge and that Mrs. Wyvern + might support. + </p> + <p> + Bill achieved his end: the stories he had had printed in magazines, + secretly shown to his proud mother, were now brought forth and chuckled + over with glee by the Professor. The famous biologist struggled through + one of the stories, vowed he had read them all, cheerily patted Bill's arm + with his shaky old hand, and cheerfully abandoned the hope he had held of + seeing his son a great surgeon. + </p> + <p> + It was Bill's burning ambition to obtain a post upon a paper. Not until + later did he learn that it is the men outside the papers who must have a + turn for stringing sentences; that those inside are machines, cutting and + serving the material with no greater interest in it than has the + cheesemonger in the cheese he weighs and deals. Meanwhile, the glimpse we + may take of him shows Bill Wyvern urging along his pen until clean paper + became magic manuscripts; living upon a billow of hope when the envelopes + were sped, submerged beneath oceans of gloom when they were returned; + trembling into Fleet Street deliciously to inhale the thick smell of + printer's ink that came roaring up from a hundred basements; with goggle + eyes venerating the men who with assured steps passed in and out the + swing-doors of castles he burned to storm; snatching brief moments for the + boisterous society of Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, those rare bull-terriers; + and finally, expending with his Margaret moments more protracted—stealthy + meetings, for the most part—in Mr. Marrapit's shrubbery. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + But two more peeps from our bridge need we take, and then our characters + will be ready to meet us upon the further side. + </p> + <p> + A glance from here will reveal to us Mrs. Major, that masterly woman, + inscribing in her diary: + </p> + <p> + “<i>Getting on with Mr. M. Should sue. Precip. fat.</i>” + </p> + <p> + Fill out the abbreviations to which Mrs. Major, in her diary, was prone, + and we have: + </p> + <p> + “<i>Getting on with Mr. Marrapit. Should succeed. Precipitancy fatal.</i>” + </p> + <p> + Succeed in what? To what would precipitancy of action be irreparable? + Listen to a conversation that may enlighten us—spoken upon the lawn + of Herons' Holt; Mr. Marrapit in his chair making a lap for the Rose of + Sharon; Mrs. Major on a garden seat, crocheting. + </p> + <p> + A stealthy peep assuring her that his eyes were not closed, Mrs. Major + nerved herself with a deep breath; with a long sigh let it escape in the + form, “A year ago!”—dropped hands upon her lap and gazed wistfully + at the setting sun. She had seen the trick very successfully performed + upon the stage. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit turned his eyes upon her. + </p> + <p> + “You spoke, Mrs. Major?” + </p> + <p> + With an admirable start Mrs. Major appeared to gather in wandering + fancies. “I fear I was thinking aloud, Mr. Marrapit. I beg pardon.” + </p> + <p> + “Do not. There is no occasion. You said 'A year ago.'” + </p> + <p> + “Did I, Mr. Marrapit?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” said Mr. Marrapit. + </p> + <p> + A pause followed. The wistful woman felt that, were the thing to be done + properly, the word lay with her companion. To her pleasure he continued: + </p> + <p> + “To-day, then, is an anniversary?” + </p> + <p> + “It is.” + </p> + <p> + “Of a happy event, I trust?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major clasped her hands; spoke with admirable ecstasy. “Oh, Mr. + Marrapit, of a golden—golden page in my life.” + </p> + <p> + “Elucidate,” Mr. Marrapit commanded. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major put into a whisper: + </p> + <p> + “The day I came here.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit slowly moved his head towards her. + </p> + <p> + Her eyes were averted. “The time has passed swiftly,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major breathed: “For me it has flown on—on—” She searched + wildly for a metaphor. “On wings,” she concluded. + </p> + <p> + Again there was a pause, and again Mrs. Major felt that for this passage + to have fullest effect the word lay with Mr. Marrapit. But Mr. Marrapit, + himself considerably perturbed, did not speak. The moments sped. Fearful + lest they should distance beyond recovery the sentiments she felt she had + aroused, Mrs. Major hastened to check them. + </p> + <p> + She said musingly: “I wonder if they are right?”—sighed as though + doubtful. + </p> + <p> + “To whom do you refer?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, the people who say that time flies when it is spent in pleasant + company.” + </p> + <p> + “They are correct,” Mr. Marrapit affirmed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I do not doubt it for my part, Mr. Marrapit. I never knew what + happiness was until I come here—came here. But if—” The + masterly woman paused. + </p> + <p> + “Continue” Mr. Marrapit commanded. + </p> + <p> + The hard word was softly spoken. Mrs. Major's heart gave two little + thumps; her plan clear before her, pushed ahead. “But if to you also, Mr. + Marrapit, the time has seemed to fly, then—then Mr. Marrapit, my + company has—has been agreeable to you?” + </p> + <p> + Certainly there was a softness in Mr. Marrapit's tones as he made answer. + </p> + <p> + “It has, Mrs. Major,” he said, “it has. Into my establishment you have + brought an air of peace that had for some time been lacking. Prior to your + arrival, I was often worried by household cares that should not fall upon + a man.” + </p> + <p> + Earnestly Mrs. Major replied: “Oh, I <i>saw</i> that. I strove to lift + them.” + </p> + <p> + “You have lifted them. You have attended not only my cats but my kitchen. + I am now able often to enjoy such evenings as these. This peace around us + illustrates the tranquillity you have brought—” + </p> + <p> + The tranquillity was at that moment disastrously shattered. A bed of + shrubbery lay within a few feet of where they sat. What had appeared to be + a gnarled stump in its midst now quivered, broadened, fell into a line + with the straightening back of Mr. Fletcher. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit was startled and annoyed. “What are you doing there, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Snailin',” said Mr. Fletcher gloomily; exhibited his snail. + </p> + <p> + “Snail elsewhere. Do not snail where I am.” + </p> + <p> + “I snails where there's snails.” + </p> + <p> + “Cease snailing. You must have been there hours.” + </p> + <p> + “What if I have? This garden's fair planted with snails.” + </p> + <p> + “Snail oftener. Depart.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Fletcher moved a few steps; then turned. “I should like to ast if this + is to be part of my regular job. First you says 'cease snailin',' then you + says 'snail oftener,' then you says 'snail elsewhere.' Snails take + findin'. They don't come to me; I has to go to them. It's 'ard—damn + 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; not a lettuce-leaf.” + </p> + <p> + He gloomily withdrew. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit's face was angrily twitching. The moment was not propitious + for continuing her conversation, and with a little sigh Mrs. Major + withdrew. + </p> + <p> + But it was upon that night that she inscribed in her diary: + </p> + <p> + <i>“Getting on with Mr. M. Should suc. Precip. fat.”</i> + </p> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <p> + A last peep, ere we hurry across the bridge, will disclose to us Mr. Bob + Chater still pressing upon Mary the attentions which her position, in + relation to his, made it so difficult for her to escape. Piqued by her + attitude towards him, he was the more inflamed than ordinarily he would + have been by the fair face and neat figure that were hers. Yet he made no + headway; within a month of the date of his return to Palace Gardens was as + far from conquest as upon that night in the nursery. + </p> + <p> + To a City friend, Mr. Lemuel Moss, dining at 14 Palace Gardens with him + one night, he explained affairs. + </p> + <p> + “Dam' pretty girl, that governess of yours, or whatever she is,” said Mr. + Moss, biting the end from a cigar in the smoking-room after dinner. “Lucky + beggar you are, Bob. My mater won't have even a servant in the place that + wouldn't look amiss in a monkey-house. Knows me too well, unfortunately,” + and Mr. Moss, taking a squint at himself in the overmantel, laughed—well + enough pleased. + </p> + <p> + Bob pointed out that there was not so much luck about it as Mr. Moss + appeared to think. “Never seen such a stand-offish little rip in all my + life,” he moodily concluded. + </p> + <p> + “What, isn't she—?” + </p> + <p> + Bob understood the unvoiced question. “Won't even let a chap have two + minutes' talk with her,” he said, “let alone anything else.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moss stretched himself along the sofa; rejoined: “Oh, rats! Rats! You + don't know how to manage 'em—that's what it is.” + </p> + <p> + “I know as well as you, and a dashed sight better, I don't mind betting,” + Bob returned with heat. In some circles it is an aspersion upon a man's + manliness to have it hinted that a petticoat presenting possibilities has + not been ruffled. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it don't look much like it. I caught her eye in the passage when we + were coming downstairs, and you don't tell me—not much!” + </p> + <p> + “Did you though?” Bob said. Himself he had never been so fortunate. + </p> + <p> + “No mistake about it. Why, d'you mean to say you've never got as far as + that, even?” + </p> + <p> + “Tell you she won't look at me.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moss laughed. Enjoyed the “score” over his host for a few moments, and + then: + </p> + <p> + “Tell you what it is, old bird,” said he, “you're going the wrong way + about it. I know another case just the same. Chap out Wimbledon way. His + people kept a girl—topper she was, too—dark. He was always + messing round just like you are, and she was stand-offish as a nun. One + night he came home early, a bit screwed—people out—girl in. + Met her in the drawing-room. Almost been afraid to speak to her before. + Had a bit of fizz on board him now—<i>you</i> know; didn't care a + rip for anybody. Gave her a smacking great kiss, and, by Gad!—well, + she <i>was</i> all right. Told him she'd always stood off up to then + because she was never quite sure what he meant—afraid he didn't mean + anything, and that she might get herself into no end of a row if she + started playing around. Same with this little bit of goods, I'll lay.” + </p> + <p> + Bob was interested. “Shouldn't be surprised if you're right,” he said; and + moodily cogitated upon the line of action prescribed. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moss offered to bet that where girls were concerned he was never far + wrong. “Slap-dash style is what they like,” he remarked, and with a + careless “It's all they understand” dismissed the subject. + </p> + <p> + It remained, however, in Bob's mind throughout the evening; sprang + instantly when, after breakfast upon the following day, he caught a + glimpse of Mary as he prepared for the City. + </p> + <p> + Standing for a moment in the hall, it occurred to him that this very + evening offered the opportunity he sought. Mr. and Mrs. Chater were to + dine at the house of a neighbour. The invitation had included Bob—fortunately + he had refused it. Returning to the morning-room, “I shan't be in + to-night,” he told his mother. + </p> + <p> + “Then I needn't order any dinner for you?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” He hung about irresolute, then lit a cigar, and between the puffs, + “Shall you be late?” he asked carelessly. + </p> + <p> + “Sure to be,” Mrs. Chater told him. “It's going to be a big bridge drive, + you know. We shan't get back before midnight. Don't sit up for us, dear.” + </p> + <p> + Bob inhaled a long breath from his cigar, exhaled it deliciously. The + chance for the slap-dash style was at hand. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll be later than you. Lemmy Moss has got a bachelors' party on. + We're going to have a billiard match.” + </p> + <p> + “That's capital then, dear. I shall let the servants go to Earl's Court—I've + promised them a long time.” + </p> + <p> + Bob whistled gaily as he mounted his 'bus for the City. The opportunity + was surely exceptional. + </p> + <p> + At eight o'clock he returned; noiselessly let himself in. + </p> + <p> + The gas in the hall burned low. Beneath the library door gleamed a + stronger light. Bob turned the handle. + </p> + <p> + Mary was curled in a big chair with a book. Certainly the opportunity was + exceptional. + </p> + <p> + At the noise of his entry she sprang to her feet with a little cry. “Oh, + dear!” she exclaimed: “what a fright you gave me!” + </p> + <p> + Bob pushed the door. He laughed. “Did I?”; came towards her. “Are you all + alone? What a shame!” + </p> + <p> + “Minnie is in the kitchen, I think. Mrs. Chater said you wouldn't be in + to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you think I came?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + “I came to see you.” + </p> + <p> + She gave a nervous little laugh and made to pass him. + </p> + <p> + Bob fell back a pace, guarding the door. “Don't you think that was + thoughtful of me?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know what you mean. There was no need.” + </p> + <p> + “What! No need! You all alone like this when all the rest are enjoying + themselves!” + </p> + <p> + “So was I. A long evening with a book.” + </p> + <p> + She had fallen back as he, speaking, had slowly advanced. + </p> + <p> + Now the great chair in which she had been seated was alone between them. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, books! Books are rot.” He stepped around the chair. + </p> + <p> + She fell back; was cornered between the hearth and a low table. + </p> + <p> + Bob dropped into the chair; boldly regarded her; his eyes as expressive of + his slap-dash intentions as he could make them: “Look here, I want you to + enjoy yourself for once. I'm going to take you to a music-hall or + somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + He stretched a foot; touched her. + </p> + <p> + She drew back close against the mantelpiece, her agitation very evident. + </p> + <p> + “Well, don't that please you?” + </p> + <p> + “You know it is impossible.” + </p> + <p> + Bob paid no regard. This was that same diffidence with which the chap near + Wimbledon had had to contend. + </p> + <p> + “We'll come out of the show early and have a bit of supper and be back + before half-past eleven. Who's to know? Now, then?” + </p> + <p> + “It's very kind of you. I know you mean it kindly—” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do—” + </p> + <p> + “But I'd rather not.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you afraid?” + </p> + <p> + She was desperately afraid. Her face, the shaking of her hand where it was + pressed back against the wall, and the catch in her voice advertised her + apprehension. She was afraid of this big young man confidently lolling + before her. + </p> + <p> + She said weakly: “It would not be right.” + </p> + <p> + Bob sat up. “Is that all?” he laughed. His hands were upon the arms of the + chair, and he made to pull himself up towards her. + </p> + <p> + She saw her mistake. “No,” she cried hurriedly—“no; I would not go + with you in any case.” + </p> + <p> + A shadow flickered upon Bob's face. “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean what I say. Please let me pass.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to be friends with you. Why can't you let me?” + </p> + <p> + “Please let me pass. Mr. Chater.” + </p> + <p> + Bob lay back. He said with a laugh, “Well, I'm not stopping you, am I?” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated a moment. The passage between the table and the long chair + was narrow. But truly he was not stopping her—so far as one might + judge. + </p> + <p> + She took her skirts about her with her left hand; stepped forward; was + almost past the chair before he moved. + </p> + <p> + Then he flung out a hand and caught her wrist, drawing her. + </p> + <p> + “Now!” he cried, and his voice was thick. + </p> + <p> + She gave a half-sound of dismay—of fear; tried to twist free. Bob + laughed; pulled sharply on her arm. She was standing sideways to him—against + the sudden strain lost her balance and half toppled across the chair. + </p> + <p> + As Bob reflected, when afterwards feeding upon the incident, had he not + been as unprepared as she for her sudden stumble, he would have made—as + he put it—a better thing of it. As it was, her face falling against + his, he was but able to give a half kiss when she had writhed herself free + and made across the room. + </p> + <p> + But that embrace of her had warmed Bob's passions. Springing up, he caught + her as she fumbled with the latch; twisted her to him. + </p> + <p> + For a moment they struggled, he grasping her wrists and pressing towards + her. + </p> + <p> + With the intention of encircling her waist he slipped his hold. But panic + made her the quicker. Her outstretched arms held him at bay for a + breathing space; then as he broke them down she dealt him a swinging blow + upon the face that staggered him back a step, his hand to his cheek. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater opened the door. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he kissed me! He kissed me!” Mary cried. + </p> + <p> + Bob said very slowly, “You—infernal—little—liar.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater glowered upon Mary with cruel eyes. “It was a fortunate + thing,” she said coldly, “that a headache brought me home. Go to your + room, miss.” + </p> + <p> + We may hurry across the bridge. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <h3> + Excursions In Love. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + Saturday was the day immediately following this scene. + </p> + <p> + George, on a 'bus carrying him towards Regent's Park, was in spirit at one + with the gay freshness that gave this September morning a spring-like air. + </p> + <p> + A week of torrid heat, in which London crawled, groaned, and panted, had + been wiped from the memory by an over-night thunderstorm that burst the + pent-up dams of heaven and loosed cool floods upon the staring streets. No + misty drizzle nor gusty shower it had been, but a strong, straight, + continuous downpour, seemingly impelled by tremendous pressure. Dusty + roofs, dusty streets, dusty windows it had scoured and scrubbed and + polished; torrents had poured down the gutters—whenever temporarily + the pressure seemed to relax, the ears of wakeful Londoners were sung to + by the gurgle and rush of frantic streams driving before them the + collected debris of many days. + </p> + <p> + Upon this morning, in the result, a tempest might have swept the town and + found never a speck of dust to drive before it. The very air had been + washed and sweetened; and London's workers, scurrying to and from their + hives, seemed also to have benefited by some attribute of the downpour + that tinted cheeks, sparkled eyes, and, rejuvenating limbs, gave to them a + new sprightliness of movement. + </p> + <p> + George, from his 'bus, caught many a bright eye under a jaunty little hat; + gave each back its gleam from the depths of gay lightness that filled his + heart. Nearing the Park he alighted; made two purchases. From a + confectioner bun-corn for David and Angela, those ramping steeds; from a + florist the reddest rose that an exhaustive search of stock could + discover. + </p> + <p> + Mary had from him such a rose at their every meeting. She might not wear + it back to Palace Gardens—it would not flourish beneath Mrs. + Chater's curiosity; but while they were together she would tuck it in her + bosom, and George tenderly would bear it home and set it in a vase before + him to lend him inspiration as he worked. + </p> + <p> + It is almost certain that such a part is one for which flowers were + especially designed. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + Those splendid steeds, David and Angela, having been duly exercised, + groomed, and turned out to browse upon bun-corn, George rushed at once + upon the matter that was singing within him. + </p> + <p> + Where he sat with his Mary they were sheltered from any but chance + obtrusion. She had taken off her gloves, and George gave her hands, as + they lay in her lap, a little confident pat. It was the tap of the baton + with which the conductor calls together his orchestra—for this was a + song that George was about to tune, very confident that the chords of both + instruments that should give the notes were in a harmony complete. + </p> + <p> + He said: “Mary, do you know what I am going to talk about?” + </p> + <p> + She had been a little silent that morning, he had thought; did not answer + now, but smiled. + </p> + <p> + He laid a hand upon both hers. “You must say 'yes.' You've got to say + 'yes' about twenty times this morning, so start now. Do you know what I'm + going to talk about?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “No objections this time?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed; gave her hand a little smack of reproof. (You who have loved + will excuse these lovers' absurdities.) “No, no; you are only to say 'yes' + when I tell you. No objections to the subject this morning?” + </p> + <p> + His Mary told him “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn't have a better morning for it, could we?” + </p> + <p> + She took a little catch at her breath. + </p> + <p> + George dropped the banter in his tone. “Nothing wrong to-day, is there, + dear? Nothing up?” + </p> + <p> + How sadly wrong everything in truth was she had determined not to tell him + until she more certainly knew its extent. She shook her head; reassuringly + smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Well, that's all right—there couldn't be on a morning like this. + Now we've got to begin at the beginning. Mary, I planned it all out last + night—all this conversation. We've got to begin at the beginning—Do + you know I've never told you yet that I love you? You knew it, though, + didn't you, from the first, the very first? Tell me from when?” + </p> + <p> + “George, this is awfully foolish, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind. It's jolly nice. It's necessary, too. I've read about it. + It's always done. Tell me from when you knew I loved you.” + </p> + <p> + “After last Saturday.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mary! Much earlier than <i>that</i>! You must have!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I thought perhaps you—you cared after that first day when you + came here.” + </p> + <p> + “Not before that?” + </p> + <p> + She laughed. “Come, how <i>could</i> I? Why, I'd hardly seen you.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I did, anyway,” George told her. “I loved you from the very minute + you shot out of the cab that day. There! But even this isn't the proper + thing. I've been promising myself all night to say four words to you—just + four. Now I'm going to say them: Mary, I love you.” + </p> + <p> + She looked in his eyes for a moment, answering the signal that shone + thence; and then she laughed that clear pipe of mirth which was so + uniquely her own possession. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I say, you mustn't do that,” George cried. He was really perturbed. + </p> + <p> + “I can't help it. You are so utterly foolish.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not. It's the proper thing. I tell you I've planned it all out. I + love you. I've never said it to you before. Now it's your turn.” + </p> + <p> + “But what on earth am I to say?” + </p> + <p> + “You've got to say that you love me.” + </p> + <p> + “You're making a farce of it.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I tell you I've planned it all out. I can't go on till you've said + it.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't expect me to say: 'George, I love you.' It's ridiculous. It's + like a funny story.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, never mind what it's like. Do be serious, Mary. How can I be sure you + love me if you won't tell me?” + </p> + <p> + For the first moment since its happening the thought of Bob Chater and of + Mrs. Chater passed completely from Mary's mind. She looked around: there + was no soul in sight. She listened: there was no sound. She clasped her + fingers about his; leaned towards him, her face upturned.... + </p> + <p> + He kissed her upon the lips.... + </p> + <p> + “The plans,” said George after a moment, “have all gone fut. I never + thought of that way.” + </p> + <p> + “It's much better,” Mary said. + </p> + <p> + “The other's not a patch upon it,” said George. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + You must conjecture of what lovers think when, following their first kiss, + they sit silent. It is not a state that may be written down in such poor + words as your author commands. For the touch of lips on lips is the key + that turns the lock and gives admission to a world dimly conceived, yet + found to have been wrongly conceived since conceived never to be so + wonderful or so beautiful as it does prove. Nor, ever again, once the + silence is broken and speech is found, has that world an aspect quite the + same. For the door that divides this new world from the material world can + never from the inside be closed. It is at first—for the space of + that silence after the first kiss—pushed very close by those who + have entered; but, soon after, the breath of every rushing moment blows it + further and further ajar. Drab objects from the outer world drift across + the threshold and obtrude their presence—vagabond tramps in a + rose-garden, unpleasant, marring the surroundings, soiling the atmosphere. + Cares drift in, worldly interests drift in; in drift smudgy, soiled, + unpleasant objects brushing the door yet wider upon its hinges till it + stands back to its furthest extent and the interior becomes at one with + the outer world. The process is gradual, indiscernible. When completed the + knowledge of what has been done dawns suddenly. One knocks against an + intruder especially drab, starts into wakefulness to rub the bruise, and + looking around exclaims, “And this is love!” + </p> + <p> + Well, it was love. But a rose-garden will not long remain beautiful if no + care is taken of what may intrude. + </p> + <p> + If we but stand sentinel at the door, exercising a nice discretion, the + garden may likely remain unsoiled, its air uncontaminated. + </p> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <p> + George said that though across the first portion of the scheme he had so + laboriously planned he had been shot at lightning speed by the vehicle of + Mary's action, its latter portion yet remained to be discussed. “We've got + to marry, dearest—and as quick as quick. We can't go on like this—seeing + each other once a week. No, not even if it were once a day. It's got to be + always.” + </p> + <p> + “Always and always, dear,” Mary said softly. + </p> + <p> + Women are more intoxicated than men by the sudden atmosphere of that new + world. The awe of it was still upon her. The light of love comes strongly + to men, with the sensation of bright sunshine; to women as through stained + glass windows, softly. + </p> + <p> + She continued: “Fancy saying 'always' and being glad to say it! I never + thought I could. Do you know—will this frighten you?—I am one + of those people who dread the idea of 'always.' I never could bear the + idea of looking far, far ahead and not seeing any end. It frightened me. + Ever since father died, I've been like that—even in little things, + even in tangible things. When we go to the seaside in the summer I never + can bear to look straight across the sea. That gives me the idea of always—of + long, long miles and miles without a turn or a stop. I want to think every + day, every hour, that what I am doing can't go on—mustchange. It + suffocates me to think otherwise. I want to jump out, to scream.” + </p> + <p> + Then she gave that laugh that seldom failed to come to her relief, and + said: “It's a sort of claustrophobia—isn't that the word?—on a + universal scale. But why is it? And why am I suddenly changed now? Why + does the thought of always, always, endless always with you, bring a sort + of—don't laugh, dear—a sort of bliss, peace?” + </p> + <p> + This poor George of mine, who was no deep thinker, nevertheless had the + reason pat. He said: + </p> + <p> + “I think because the past has all been unhappy and because this, you know, + means happiness.” + </p> + <p> + She gave a little sigh; told him: “Yes, that's it—happiness.” + </p> + <h3> + V. + </h3> + <p> + And now they fell to making plans as mating birds build nests. Here a bit + of straw and there a tuft of moss; here a feather, there a shred of wool—George + would do this and George would do that; here the house would be and thus + would they do in the house. Probabilities were outraged, obstacles + vaulted. + </p> + <p> + Castles that are builded in the air spring into being quicker than + Aladdin's palace—bricks and mortar, beams and stones are + featherweight when handled in the clouds; every piece is so dovetailed, + marked and numbered that like magic there springs before the eye the + shining whole—pinnacled, turreted, embattled. + </p> + <p> + Disaster arrives when the work is completed. “There!” we say, standing + back, a little flushed and out of breath with the excitement of the thing. + “There! There's a place in which to live! Could any existence be more + glorious?” And then we advance a step and lean against the walls to survey + the surrounding prospect. It is the fatal action. The material body + touches the aerial structure and down with a crash the castle comes—back + we pitch into the foundations, and thwack, bump, thwack, comes the masonry + tumbling about us, bruising, wounding. + </p> + <h3> + VI. + </h3> + <p> + George had built the castle. Mary had sat by twittering and clapping her + hands for glee as higher and higher it rose. He knew for a fact, he told + her, that his uncle had not expended upon his education much more than + half the money left him for the purpose. He was convinced that by hook or + by crook he could obtain the 400 pounds that would buy him the practice at + Runnygate of which the Dean had told him. They would have a little house + there—the town would thrive—the practice would nourish—in + a year—why, in a year they would likely enough have to be thinking + of getting a partner! And it would begin almost immediately! In three + weeks the examination would be held. He could not fail to pass—then + for the 400 pounds and Runnygate! + </p> + <p> + And then, unhappily, George leaned against this castle wall; provoked the + crash. + </p> + <p> + “Till then, dear,” he said, “you will stay with these Chater people. I + know you hate it; but it will be only a short time, a few weeks at most.” + </p> + <p> + Instantly her gay twittering ceased. Trouble drove glee from her eyes. + Memory chased dreams from her brain. Distress tore down the gay colours + from her cheeks. She clasped her hands; from her seat half rose. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she cried; and again, “Oh! I had forgotten!” + </p> + <p> + “Forgotten? Forgotten what?” + </p> + <p> + “Dearest, I should have told you at the beginning, but I could not. I + wanted to wait until I knew. I have not seen her yet this morning.” + </p> + <p> + My startled George was becoming pale. “Knew what? Seen whom? What do you + mean?” + </p> + <p> + She said, “No, I won't tell you. I won't spoil all this beautiful morning + we have spent. I will wait till next week.” + </p> + <p> + “Mary, what do you mean? Wait till next week? No. You must tell me now. + How could I leave you like this, knowing you are in some trouble? What has + happened? You must tell. You must. I insist.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I will.” Her agitation, as her mind cast back over the events of the + previous night, was enhanced by the suddenness of the change from the + sunshine in which she had been disporting to the darkness that now swept + upon her. She was as a girl who, singing along a country lane, is suddenly + confronted from the hedgeside by some ugly tramp. + </p> + <p> + She said, “You know that young Mr. Chater?” + </p> + <p> + Dark imaginings clouded upon George's brow. “Yes,” he said. “Yes; well—?” + </p> + <p> + “Last night—” And then she gave him the history of events. + </p> + <p> + This simple George of mine writhed beneath it. + </p> + <p> + It was a poison torturing his system, twisting his brow, knotting his + hands. Her presence, when she finished, did not stay his cry beneath his + rackings: he was upon his feet. “By Gad,” he cried, “I'll thrash the life + out of him! The swine! By Gad, I'll kill him!” + </p> + <p> + She laid a hand upon his arm. “Georgie, dear,” she pleaded. “Don't, don't + take it like that. I haven't finished.” + </p> + <p> + Roughly he turned upon her. “Well, what else? What else?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't seen him since. He went away early this morning for the + week-end. And I have not seen Mrs. Chater again either. I am to see her + this afternoon. She sent me word to take the children as usual and that + she would see me at three.” + </p> + <p> + My poor George bitterly broke out: “Oh! Will she? That's kind of her! + That's delightful of her! Are you going to see her?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I shall see her.” + </p> + <p> + “'Of course'! 'Of course'! I don't know what you mean by talking in that + tone. You won't stay there another minute! That's what you'll tell her if + you insist upon seeing her. If you had behaved properly you'd have walked + out of the house there and then when it happened last night.” + </p> + <p> + Spite of her trouble Mary could not forbear to laugh. “Dearest, how could + I?” + </p> + <p> + But this furious young man could not see her point. His fine passion swept + him above contingencies. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, this morning,” he laid down. “The first thing this morning + you should have gone.” He supplied detail: “Packed your box, and called a + cab and gone.” + </p> + <p> + His dictatory air drew from her another sad little laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, George, dear,” she cried, “gone where?” + </p> + <p> + It was a bucket of water dashed upon his flames, and for a moment they + flickered beneath it—then roared again: “<i>Where? Anywhere!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she cried, “you are stupid! You don't see—you don't + understand! Easy to say 'anywhere,' but where—<i>where</i>? I have + no money. I have no friends—I—” + </p> + <p> + The knowledge of her plight and her outlook crowded upon her speech; broke + her voice. + </p> + <p> + Her distracted George in a moment had her hands in his. “Oh, my dear,” he + cried, “what a fool I am! What a beast to storm like that! I was so wild. + So mad. Of course you had to think before you moved. You were right, of + course you were right. But, my darling, I'm right now. You see that, don't + you? You can't stay a moment longer with those beasts.” + </p> + <p> + And then he laughed grimly. “Especially,” he added, “after what I'm going + to do to Master Bob.” + </p> + <p> + She too laughed. The thought of Bob learning manners beneath the tuition + of those sinewy brown hands that were about hers was very pleasant to her. + But it was a pleasure that must be denied—this she saw clearly as + the result of weary tossings throughout the night; and now she set about + the task of explaining it to George. + </p> + <p> + She said: “Oh, my dear, you're not right. Georgie, I can't go—if + Mrs. Chater will let me stay I must stay.” + </p> + <p> + He tried to be calm, to understand these women, to understand his Mary. + “But why?” he asked. “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Dearest, because I must bridge over the time until you are ready to take + me. You see that?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. But why there? You can easily get another place.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, easily! If you had been through it as I have been! The first thing + they ask you for is a reference from your former situation. Think what a + reference Mrs. Chater would give me!” + </p> + <p> + He would not agree. He plunged along in his blundering, man fashion: “In + time you could get a place where they would not ask questions—or + rather—yes, of course this is it. Tell them frankly all that + happened. Who could see you and not believe you? Tell them everything. + There must be some nice people in the world.” + </p> + <p> + “There may be. But they don't want helps or governesses—in my + experience.” The little laugh she gave was sadly doleful. + </p> + <p> + He was still angry. “You can't generalise like that. There are thousands + who would believe you and be glad to take you. Suppose you have to wait a + bit—well, you have a little money that she must give you; and I—oh, + curse my poverty!—I can borrow, and I can sell things.” + </p> + <p> + The help that a man would give a woman so often has lack of sympathy; he + is unkind while meaning to be kind. George's obdurateness, coming when she + was most in need of kisses, hurt her. Trouble welled in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn't do that,” she said. “For one thing, we want all our money. Why + throw it away to get me out of a place in which I shall only be for a few + weeks longer? Another thing—another thing—” She dragged a + ridiculous handkerchief from her sleeve; dabbed her brimming eyes. + “Another thing—I'm afraid to risk it. I'm afraid to be alone and + looking for a place again. There—now you know. I'm a coward.” + </p> + <p> + She fell to sniffing and sobbing; and her wretched George, cursing himself + for the grief he had evoked, cursing Bob Chater, cursing Mrs. Chater, + cursing his uncle Marrapit, put his arms about her and drew her to him. + She quivered hysterically, and he frantically moaned that he was a beast, + a brute, unworthy; implored forgiveness; entreated calm; by squeezing her + with his left arm and with his right hand dabbing her eyes with her + handkerchief, screwed to a pathetic little damp ball, strove to stem the + flood that alarmingly welled from them. + </p> + <h3> + VII. + </h3> + <p> + It was an awful position for any young man; and just as my poor George, + distinguished in nothing, inept, bewildered, was in a mood murderous to + the whole world save this anguished fairy, a wretched old gentleman must + needs come sunning himself down the path, making for this seat with + hobbling limbs. + </p> + <p> + He collapsed upon it, and then, glancing to his right, was struck with + palpitations by sight of the heaving back of a young woman over whose + shoulder glared at him with hideous ferocity the face of a young man. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, dear me,” said he; “nothing wrong, sir, I trust?” + </p> + <p> + “Go away!” roared my distracted George. + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” inquired the old gentleman, horribly startled. + </p> + <p> + “Go away! Go away!” + </p> + <p> + The fire of those baleful eyes, of that bellowing voice, struck terror + into the aged heart. He clutched his stick. + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear, oh dear,” said he; hobbled away at a speed dangerous to his life + and limbs to seek protection of a park-keeper. + </p> + <p> + The sobs grew longer, less hysterical: changed into long “ohs” of misery; + died away. + </p> + <p> + “There, there,” said George, patting, dabbing. “There, there.” + </p> + <p> + With a final frantic sniff she recovered her self-possession. + </p> + <p> + “I'm a little f—fool,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “I'm a brute,” said George. + </p> + <p> + The bitter knowledge nerved each to better efforts. Calm reigned. + </p> + <p> + Mary said, “Now you must listen and believe, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me have your hand, then.” + </p> + <p> + She gave it with a little confiding, snuggling movement, and she + continued: “You must believe, because I have thought it all out, whereas + to you it is new. If I were a proper-spirited girl”—she rebuked his + negation with a gesture—“if I were a proper-spirited girl I know I + should leave Mrs. Chater at once—walk out and not care what I might + suffer rather than stay where I had been insulted. Girls in books would do + it. Oh, Georgie, this isn't books. This is real. I have been through it, + and I would die sooner than face it again. You know—I have told you—what + it is like being alone in cheap lodgings in London. Afraid of people, + dear. Afraid of men, afraid of women. I couldn't, could not go through it + again. And after all-don't you see?—if Mrs. Chater will let me stay, + what have I to mind? I shall be better off than before, if anything. Mrs. + Chater has always been—well, sharp. She may be a little worse—there's + nothing in that. But this Bob Chater, since he came, has been the worst + part of it. And as things are now, his mother watchful and he—what + shall I say? angry, ashamed—why, he will pay no further attention to + me. Come, am I not right? Isn't it best?—if only she will let me + stay.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't like it,” George said. “I don't like it.” + </p> + <p> + “Dearest, nor I. But we can't, can't have what we like, and this will be + the best of the nasty things. For so short a time, too. I'm quite bright + about it. Am I not? Look at me.” + </p> + <p> + George looked. Then he said, “All right, old girl.” + </p> + <p> + She clapped her hands. “Only one thing more. You mustn't seek out—you + mustn't touch the detestable Bob.” + </p> + <p> + With the gloom of one relinquishing life's greatest prize George said, “I + suppose I mustn't.” He added, “I tell you what, though. You mustn't + interfere with this. I'll save it up for him. The day I take you out and + marry you I'll pull him out—and pay him.” + </p> + <p> + They parted upon the promises that Mary would write that evening to tell + him of the result of her interview with Mrs. Chater, and that, in the + especial circumstances, he might come to see her in the Park for just two + minutes on Monday morning. + </p> + <p> + And each went home, thinking, not of that portending interview with Mrs. + Chater, but upon the love they had declared. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <h3> + Events And Sentiment Mixed In A Letter. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + At ten o'clock that night Mary took up her pen. + </p> + <p> + “First, my dear, to tell you that it is all right. I may stay. I had lunch + with the children in the nursery, and just as we had finished a maid came + to say that Mrs. Chater would see me in the study. Down I crawled, wishing + that I was the heroine of a novel who would have passed firmly down the + stairs and into the room, 'pale, but calm and serene.' Oh! I was pale + enough, I feel sure. But as to serene!—my heart was flapping about + just like a tin ventilator in a wind, and I was jumpy all over. You see + what a coward am I. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Chater had grown since last I saw her. Of that I am convinced. She + sat, enormous, thunder-browed, bolt upright in a straight chair. I stood + and quivered. Books are all wrong, dear. In books the consciousness of + virtue gives one complete self-possession in the face of any accusation, + however terrible. In books it is the accuser of the innocent who is ill at + ease. Oh, don't believe it! Mrs. Chater had the self-possession, I had the + jim-jams. + </p> + <p> + “'I have not seen you since last night,' she said. + </p> + <p> + “I gave a kind of terrified little squeak. I had no words. + </p> + <p> + “'Your version of what happened I do not wish to hear,' she went on. + </p> + <p> + “This relieved me, because for the life of me I could not have told her + had she wished to hear it. So I gave another little mouse-squeak. + </p> + <p> + “'My son has told me.' Her voice was like a deep bell. 'How you can + reconcile your conduct with the treatment that you have received at my + hands, here beneath my roof'—she was very dramatic at this point—'I + do not know.' + </p> + <p> + “Nor did I—but not in the way she meant. I was thinking how ignoble + was my meek attitude in light of what had happened. But you don't know + what it was like, facing that woman and dreading the worse fate of being + turned out into this awful London again. Another wretched little squeak + slipped out of me, and she went on. + </p> + <p> + “'My boy,' said she, 'has implored me to overlook this matter. My boy has + declared there were faults on both sides' (!!!!). 'If I acted rightly as a + mother, what would I do?' + </p> + <p> + “I didn't tell her, Georgie. Could I tell her that if she acted rightly as + a mother she would box her boy's fat ears until his nose bled? I couldn't. + I squeaked instead. + </p> + <p> + “'If I acted rightly as a mother,' said she, 'I would send you away. I am + not going to.' + </p> + <p> + “I squeaked. + </p> + <p> + “'I choose to believe that your behaviour in this matter was a slip. I + believe the episode will be a lesson to you. That is all. Go.' I goed.” + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + George, when he had read thus far, was broadly grinning. Obviously Mrs. + Chater was not such a bad sort after all. If—as no doubt—she + implicitly believed her son's version of the incident, then her attitude + towards Mary was, on the whole, not so bad. + </p> + <p> + But his Mary, when she had written thus far, laid down her pen, put her + pretty head upon the paper and wept. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dear!” she choked. “There, that will make you think it was all + right. You shall never know—never—what really happened. Oh, + Georgie, Georgie, come very quick and take me away! How can I go on living + with these beasts? Oh, Georgie, be quick, be quick!” + </p> + <p> + Then this silly Mary with handkerchief, with india-rubber, and with + pen-knife erased a stain of grief that had fallen upon her pretty story; + sniffed back her tears; lifted again her pen. + </p> + <p> + Now she wrote in an eager scrawl; nib flying. Had her George not been so + very ordinary a young man he must have perceived the difference between + that first portion so neatly penned—parti-coloured words showing + where the ink had dried while the poor little brain puzzled and planned at + every syllable—and this where emotion sped the thoughts. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + “So that's all right” (she wrote), “and now we've only got to wait, a few, + few weeks. Dearest, will they fly or will they drag? What does love do to + time, I wonder—whip or brake?—speed or pull? Georgie mine, I + feel I don't care. If the days fly I shall be riding in them—galloping + to you, wind in the face; shouting them on; standing up all flushed with + the swing and the rush of it; waving to the people we go thundering past + and gazing along the road where soon I will see you—nearer and + nearer and nearer. + </p> + <p> + “And if the days creep? Well, at first, after that picture, the thought + seems melancholy, unbearable. But that is wrong. The realisation will not + be unbearable. If they creep, why, then I shall lie in them, very + comfortable, very happy; dreaming of you, seeing you, speaking with you, + touching you. Yes, touching you. For, my dear, you are here in the room + with me as I write. I look up just to my right, and there you are, Georgie + mine; sitting on the end of my bed, smiling at me. You have not left me, + my dear, since we parted on the seat this morning. Why, I cannot even + write that it is only in imagination that I see you. For me it is not + imagination. I do, do see you, Georgie mine. You are part of me, never to + leave me. + </p> + <p> + “How new, how different, love makes life! Everything I do, everything I + see, everything I hear has a new interest because it is something to share + with you, something to save up and tell you. I am in trouble (you + understand that I am not, shall never be again; this is only illustration—you + must read it 'if I were in trouble'). I am in trouble, and you are sharing + it with me, sympathising so that trouble is an unkind word for what is + indeed but an opportunity acutely to feel the joy of loving and being + loved. I am happy, and the happiness is a thousandfold increased because + it comes to me warmed through you. I am amused, and it is something to + tell you and to laugh at the more heartily by the compelling sound of your + own laughter. + </p> + <p> + “Everything is new. Why, my very clothes are new. Look, here in my left + hand is my handkerchief. Only a handkerchief this morning, and to other + eyes still but a handkerchief. But to mine! Why, you have had it in your + hand and indeed it speaks to me of you. Here you laid your arm, this was + the side upon which you touched me as we sat together, here in my hair + your fingers caressed me—each and all they are new—different + from this morning. + </p> + <p> + “Are you thinking me silly when I write like this, or are you dreadfully + bored with it? I can't help it, Georgie; love means so much more to us + women than to you men. It is essentially different. When a man in love + thinks of the woman he thinks of her as 'mine,' and that thrills him—possession. + But when the woman thinks of him she thinks of herself as 'his,' and that + moves every fibre of her, strikes every chord—capitulation. The man + expresses love by saying 'You are mine'; the woman by 'I am yours.' That + is how it is with me. I sing to myself that I am yours, yours, yours. I + want you to have every bit of me. I want you to know every thought I have. + If I had bad thoughts, I would tell them you. If I had desires, I would + make them known and would not blush. I want you to see right into my very + heart. I want to lay everything before you—to come to you bound and + naked. That is what love is with women, dear. Some of us resist it, school + it otherwise—but I do not think they are happy; not really happy. It + is our nature to be as I have said, and to fight against nature is + wearying work, leaving marks: it is to get tossed aside out of the sun. + </p> + <p> + “Are you thinking me unutterably tiresome and foolish?—but you will + not think that; because you love me. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, let me write that again!-because you love me. And let me write this: + I love you. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, is not that curious?—the precious joy of saying 'I love + you,' and the constant yearning to hear it said. Not lovers alone have + this joy and this desire. Mothers teach their babies to say 'I love you, + mother,' and constantly and constantly they ask, 'Do you love me, baby? '—yes, + and are not satisfied until they have the assurance. And babies, too, will + get up suddenly from their toys to run to say, 'Mother, I <i>do</i> love + you.' + </p> + <p> + “Why is it? Why is love so doubted that it must for ever be declared? So + doubted that even those who do love must constantly be proclaiming the + fact to the object of their affections, impelled either by the + subconscious fear that that object mistrusts the devotion, or by the + subconscious fear that they themselves are under delusion and must protest + aloud—just as a child upon the brink of being frightened in the dark + will say aloud, 'I'm not afraid!' Why is it? + </p> + <p> + “Actions are allowed to proclaim hate, deeds suffice to advertise + sympathy, but love must be testified by bond. To what crimes must love + have been twisted and contorted that it should come to such a pass? How + often must it have been used as disguise to be now thus suspected? + </p> + <p> + “You never knew I thought of things like this, did you? + </p> + <p> + “My dear dear, I who am so frivolous think of yet deeper things. And I + would speak of them to you tonight, for I would have you know my heart and + mind as, dearest (how dear to think!), you know my face. Yes, of deeper + things. I suppose clever people would laugh at the religion my mother and + father lived in, taught me, died in, and now is mine. They believed—and + I believe—in what I have heard called the Sunday School God! the God + who lives, who listens, and to whom I pray. I have read books attempting + to shatter this belief—yes, and I think succeeding because written + with a cunning appeal only to the intelligence of man. Can such a Being as + God exist? they ask. And since man's intelligence can only grasp proved + facts, proofs are heaped upon proof that He cannot. The impossibilities + are heaped until man must—of his limitations—cry that it is + impossible. But in my belief God is above the possibilities—not to + be judged by them, not to be reduced to them. I suppose such a belief is + Faith—implicit Faith—the Faith that we are told makes all + things possible. Well, fancy, for the sake of having a 'religion' that + comes into line with 'reason,' abandoning the sense of comfort that comes + after prayer! Fancy receiving a 'reasoned' belief and paying for it the + solace of entreating help in the smallest trouble and in the largest! + </p> + <p> + “Do you know, my dear dear, that I pray for you every night?—for + your health, your happiness, and your success? + </p> + <p> + “Now you know a little more of me. Is there more to learn, I wonder? Not + if I can make it clear. + </p> + <p> + “The candle is in a most melancholy condition: in the last stage of + collapse. I have prodded it out from its socket with my knife and set it + flabbily on a penny—so it must work to its very last drop of life. + That will not be long delayed. I shall suddenly be plunged into darkness + and must undress in the dark. I shall be smiling all the time I am + undressing, my thoughts with you. + </p> + <p> + “At eleven—ten minutes' time—I am to be leaning from the + window gazing at Orion as you too—so we agreed—will be gazing. + Each will know the other has his thoughts, and we will say 'good-night.' + How utterly foolish! How contemptibly absurd, common!—and how + mystically delightful! You and I with Orion for the apex of eye's sight + and our thoughts flying from heart to heart the base! + </p> + <p> + “Georgie mine, if we had never met could we have ever been so happy? + Impossible! Impossible! Before I pray for you to-night, I thank God for + you. + </p> + <p> + “I have kissed the corner where I shall just be able to squeeze in—good-night.” + </p> + <p> + Such was her letter-disloyal to women in its exposure of those truths of + women's love which are theirs by the heritage of ages, by their daily + training from childhood upward, and against which they should most + desperately battle; simple in its ideas of religion; silly in its baby + sentiment. + </p> + <p> + Such was my Mary. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> + <h3> + Beefsteak For 14 Palace Gardens. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + Friday was the night of the incident in the library between Bob Chater and + Mary; Saturday the exchange of love in the Park between Mary and her + George; Saturday evening the writing of Mary's letter; upon Monday George + read it. + </p> + <p> + Now it was Monday morning, and precisely at ten o'clock three persons set + out for the same seat in Regent's Park—the mind of each filled with + one of the others, empty of all thought of the third. + </p> + <p> + Mary—accompanied by David and Angela—carried towards the seat + the image of her George, but had no heed of Mr. Bob Chater's existence; + she was the magnet that drew Bob, ignorant of George; George sped to his + Mary and had no thought of Bob. + </p> + <p> + Our young men were handicapped in point of distance. Mary, with but a + short half-mile to go, must easily be first to make the seat; Bob, coming + to town from a week-end up the river, would occupy little short of an + hour. George from Herons' Holt to that dear seat, allowed full + seventy-five minutes. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + Upon the whole, Mr. Bob Chater had not enjoyed his week-end; ideally + circumstanced, for once the attractions it offered had failed to allure. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lemmy Moss, in the tiny riparian cottage he rented for the summer + months, was the most excellent of hosts; Claude Avinger was widely known + as a rattling good sort; the three young ladies who came down early on + Sunday morning and had no foolish objections to staying indecorously late, + were in face, figure and morals all that Bob, Lemmy, and Claude could + desire. Yet throughout that day in the cushioned punt Bob won more pouts + than smiles from the lady who fell to his guardianship. + </p> + <p> + Disgustedly she remarked to her friends on the home journey, “Fairly + chucked myself at him, the deadhead “—wherein, I apprehend, lay her + mistake. For whether a man's assault upon a woman be dictated by love or + desire, its vehemence is damped by acquiescence, spurred by rebuff. + Doubtless for our lusty forefathers one-half the fascination of obtaining + to wife the naked ladies who caught their eye lay in the tremendous + excitement of snatching them from their tribes; while for the ladies, the + joy of capture comprised a great proportion of the amorous delights. + </p> + <p> + The characteristics remain. Maidens are more decorously won to-day; their + tribes do not defend them; but they do the fighting for themselves. The + sturdier the defence they are able to make, the greater the joy of at + length being won; while, for the suitor, the more pains he hath endured in + process of conquest the more keenly doth he relish his captive. + </p> + <p> + So with Bob. The young lady fairly chucking herself at him in the punt he + could not forbear to contrast with the enticing reserve of Mary. The more + playfully (or desperately, poor girl) she chucked herself at him, the more + did her charms cloy as against those of that other prize who so stoutly + kept him at arm's-length. Nay, the more strenuously did she seek to entice + his good offices, the more troubled was he to imagine why another of her + sex should so slightingly regard him. + </p> + <p> + Thus, as the day wore on, was Bob thrice impelled towards Mary—by + initial attraction of her beauty; by natural instinct to show himself + master where, till now, he had been bested; and by the stabbings of his + wounded vanity. + </p> + <p> + On Monday morning, then, he caught the ten o'clock train to town, hot in + the determination immediately to see her and instantly to press his suit. + He would try, he told himself, a new strategy. Bold assault had been + proved ill-advised; for frontal attack must be substituted an advance more + crafty. Its plan required no seeking. He would play—and, to a + certain extent, would sincerely play—the part of penitent. He would + apologise for Friday's lapse; would explain it to have been the outcome of + sheer despair of ever winning her good graces. + </p> + <p> + As to where he would find her he had no doubts. Dozing one day over a + book, he had not driven David and Angela from the room until they had + forced upon him a wearisome account of the secluded seat they had + discovered in Regent's Park. His patience in listening was an example of + the profit of casting one's bread upon the waters; for, making without + hesitation for the seat, he discovered Mary. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + The children, as he approached, were standing before her. David had + scratched his finger, and the three were breathlessly examining the + wounded hand for traces of the disaster. Brightly Mary was explaining that + the place of the wound was over the home of very big drops of “blug,” + which could not possibly squeeze out of so tiny a window; when Angela, + turning at footsteps, exclaimed: “Oh, dear, oh, dear, what <i>shall</i> we + do? Here's Bob!” + </p> + <p> + Alarm drummed in Mary's heart: fluttered upon her cheeks. She had felt, as + she told her George, so certain that from Bob she had now not even + acknowledgment to fear, that this deliberate intrusion set her mind + bounding into disordered apprehensions—stumbling among them, + terrified, out of breath. + </p> + <p> + When he had raised his hat, bade her good morning, she could but sit + dumbly staring at him-questioning, incapable of speech. + </p> + <p> + It was Angela that answered his salutation: “Oh, why <i>have</i> you come + here? You spoil <i>everything</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Hook!” said Bob. + </p> + <p> + David asked: “What's hook?” + </p> + <p> + “Run away.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I tell you to.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + Bob exclaimed: “Hasn't mother told you not to say 'Why' like that? Run + away and play. I want to speak to Miss Humfray.” + </p> + <p> + David swallowed the rising interrogation; substituted instead an observant + poke: “Miss Humfray doesn't want to speak to you. She hates you.” + </p> + <p> + The uncompromising directness of these brats, their gross + ill-mannerliness, was a matter of which Bob made constant complaint to his + mother. The belief that he observed a twitch at the corner of Mary's mouth + served further to harden his tones. + </p> + <p> + He said: “Look here, you run away when I tell you, or I'll see you don't + come out here any more.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + Bob swallowed. It was necessary before he spoke to clear his tongue of the + emotions that surged upon it. + </p> + <p> + Angela, in the pause, entreated David: “Oh, don't keep saying 'Why?', + David,” and before he could ask the reason she addressed Bob: “We won't go + for you. If Miss Humf'ay tells us to go, <i>then</i> we will go.” + </p> + <p> + Bob looked at Mary. “I only want to speak to you for a minute.” + </p> + <p> + Amongst the slippery apprehensions in which she had taken flight Mary had + struggled to the comfortable rock that Bob's appearance must have been + chance, not deliberate—how should he have known where to seek them? + Sure ground, too, was made by the belief that it were well to take the + apology with which doubtless he had come—well to be on good terms. + </p> + <p> + Encouraged by these supports, “Shoo!” she cried to her charges. “Don't you + hear what your brother asks?” + </p> + <p> + “Do <i>you</i> want us to go?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, shoo! shoo!” + </p> + <p> + Laughing, they shoo'd. + </p> + <p> + Bob let them from earshot. “I want to say how sorry I am about Friday + night.” + </p> + <p> + “I have forgotten all that.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to know that you have forgiven me.” + </p> + <p> + “I tell you I have forgotten it.” + </p> + <p> + “That is not enough. You can't have forgotten it.” He took a seat beside + her; repeated: “You can't have forgotten it. How can you have forgotten a + thing that only happened three days ago?” + </p> + <p> + “In the sense that I have wiped it out—I do not choose to remember + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I remember it. I cannot forget it. I behaved very badly. I want to + know that you forgive me.” + </p> + <p> + She told him: “Yes, then—oh yes, yes.” His persistence alarmed her, + set her again to flight among her apprehensions. + </p> + <p> + “Not when you say it like that.” + </p> + <p> + Her breath came in jerks, responsive to the unsteady flutters of her + heart. She made an effort for control; for the first time turned to him: + “Mr. Chater, please go.” + </p> + <p> + Her words pricked every force that had him there—desire, obstinacy, + wounded vanity. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you say that?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “You happened to be passing—” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing of the kind,” he told her. + </p> + <p> + “You have come purposely?” One foothold that seemed safe was proving + false. + </p> + <p> + “Of course. I tell you—why won't you believe me?—that I have + been ashamed of myself ever since that night. At the first opportunity I + have come straight to tell you so, I ought to be in the City. I could not + rest until I had made my apology.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you have made it—I don't mean to say that sharply. I think—I + think it is very nice of you to be so anxious, and I freely accept your + apology. But don't you see that you are harming me by staying here? I beg + you to go.” + </p> + <p> + “How am I harming you? Am I so distasteful to you that you can't bear me + near you?” + </p> + <p> + This was the personal note that of all her apprehensions had given Mary + greatest alarm. “Surely you see that you are harming me—I mean + hurting me—I mean, yes, getting me into trouble by staying like this + with me. Mrs. Chater might have turned me off on Saturday—” + </p> + <p> + “I spoke for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” The words choked her, but she spoke them—“I am grateful to + you for that. But if she found me talking to you again—especially if + she knew you came here to see me, she would send me away at once. She told + me so.” + </p> + <p> + “How is she to know?” + </p> + <p> + “The children—” + </p> + <p> + “I'll take care of that.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't prevent it. In any case—” + </p> + <p> + Bob said bitterly: “In any case! Yes, that's it. In any case you hate the + sight of me.” + </p> + <p> + She cried: “Oh, why will you speak like that? I mean that in any case it + is not right. I promised.” + </p> + <p> + Bob laughed. “If that's all, it is all right. You didn't promise for me.” + </p> + <p> + “It makes no difference. You say you are sorry—I believe you are + sorry. You can only show it one way. Mr. Chater, please leave me alone.” + </p> + <p> + Her pretty appeal was fatal to her desire. It enhanced her graces. In both + phrase and tone it was different from similar request in the petulant + mouths of those ladies amongst whom Bob purchased his way. Dissatisfied, + they would have said “Oh, chuck it! Do!” But “Mr. Chater, please leave me + alone!”—that had the effect of moving Mr. Chater a degree closer + along the seat. + </p> + <p> + He said: “You shan't have cause to blame me. Look here, you haven't asked + me to explain my conduct on Friday.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't wish you to.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you want to know?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Aren't you curious?” His voice was low with a note of intensity. This was + love-making, as he knew the pursuit. + </p> + <p> + He went on: “I'm sure you're curious. Look here, I'm going to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going,” she said; made to rise. + </p> + <p> + He caught her hand where it lay on her lap; pressed her down. “You're not. + If you do I shall follow—but I won't let you,” and he pressed again + in advertisement. + </p> + <p> + Now she was alarmed—not for the result of this interview, but for + its very present perils. Fear strangled her voice, but she said, “Let me + go.” + </p> + <p> + “You must hear me, then.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish to go.” + </p> + <p> + “You must stay to hear me.” He believed a fierce assault would now win the + heights. He released her hand; but she was still his prisoner, and he + leant towards her averted head. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to tell you why I behaved like that that night. It was because + I could not contain myself any longer. You had always been so icy to me; + kept me at arm's-length, barely let me speak to you; and all the time I + was burning to tell you that I loved you—there, you know it now. On + that night you were still cold when you might have been only barely civil + and I could have contained myself. But you would not give me a word, and + at last all that was in me for you burst out and I could not hold myself. + It was unkind; it was frightening to you, perhaps; but was it a crime?—is + it a crime to love?” + </p> + <p> + His flow checked, waiting an impulse from her. + </p> + <p> + She was but capable of a little “Oh!”—the crest of a gasp. + </p> + <p> + He misread her emotion. “Has it all been pretence, your keeping me from + you like this? I believe it has. But now that you know you will be kind. + Tell me. Speak.” + </p> + <p> + Encouraged by her silence he took her hand. + </p> + <p> + That touch acted as a cold blast upon her fevered emotions. Now she was + calm. + </p> + <p> + She shook off his hand. “Have you done?” + </p> + <p> + The tone more than the question warned him. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he said; sullen wrath gathering. + </p> + <p> + “Well, never speak to me again.” + </p> + <p> + “You won't be friends?” + </p> + <p> + “Friends! With you!” + </p> + <p> + Her meaning—that he had lost—stung him; her tone—that + she despised him—was a finger in the wound. + </p> + <p> + He gripped her arm. “You little fool! How are you going to choose? If I + want to be friends with you, how are you going to stop it? By God, if you + want to be enemies it will be the worse for you. If I can't be friends + with you at home, I'll get you turned out and I'll make you be friends + outside.” + </p> + <p> + She was trying to twist her arm from his grasp. + </p> + <p> + He gripped closer. “No, I don't mean that. I love you—that's why I + talk so when you rebuff me. I'll not hurt you. We shall—I will be + friends.” + </p> + <p> + His right arm held her. He slipped his left around her, drew her to him, + and with his lips had brushed her cheek before she was aware of his + intention. + </p> + <p> + The insult swept her free of every thought but its memory. By a sudden + motion she slipped from his grasp and to her feet; faced him. + </p> + <p> + “You beast!” she cried. “You beast!” + </p> + <p> + He half rose; made a half grab at her. + </p> + <p> + She stepped back a pace; something in her action reminded him of that + stinging blow she had dealt him in the library; he dropped back to his + seat and she turned and fled up the path whither Angela and David had + toddled. + </p> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <p> + It was while Bob sat gazing after her, indeterminate, that he felt a hand + from behind the seat upon his shoulder; looked up to see a tall young man, + fresh faced, but fury-browed, regarding him. + </p> + <p> + “What's your name?” asked George. + </p> + <p> + “What the devil's that to do with you?” + </p> + <p> + The tone of the first question had been of passion restrained. The passion + broke now from between George's clenched teeth, flamed in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + He tightened his grip upon the other's shoulder so that he pinched the + flesh. + </p> + <p> + “A lot to do with me,” he cried. “Is it Chater?” + </p> + <p> + “What if it is? Let me go, damn you!” + </p> + <p> + “Let you go! I've been itching for you for weeks! What have you been + saying to Miss Humfray?” + </p> + <p> + “Damn you! Take off your hand! She's a friend of yours, is she?” + </p> + <p> + My furious George choked: “Engaged to me.” Further bit upon his passion he + could not brook. He brought his free hand down with a crash upon the face + twisted up at him; relaxed his hold; ran round the seat—those brown + hands clenched. + </p> + <p> + If Bob Chater at no time had aching desire for a brawl, he was at least no + coward: here the events he had suffered well sufficed to whip his blood to + action. He sprang to his feet, was upon them as George, sideways to him, + came round the arm of the seat; lunged furiously and landed a crack upon + the cheekbone that spun George staggering up the path. + </p> + <p> + It was a good blow, a lusty blow—straight from the shoulder and with + body and leg work behind it; a blow that, happier placed, might well have + won the battle. + </p> + <p> + A ring upon Bob's finger cut the flesh he struck, and he gave a savage + “Ha!” of triumph as he saw George go spinning and the red trickle come + breaking down his cheek. + </p> + <p> + A great ridge in the gravel marked the thrust of foot with which George + stayed his stagger, from which he impelled the savage spring that brought + him within striking distance. + </p> + <p> + There was no science. This was no calmly prepared fight with cool brains + directing attack, searching weak points, husbanding strength, deft in + defence. Here was only the animal instinct to get close and wound; to + grapple and wound again. + </p> + <p> + George it was that provoked this spirit. Till now he had not seen this + flushed face before him. But he had for many days conjured it up in his + fancy—sharpening upon it the edge of his wrath, bruising himself + against the wall of wise conduct that kept him from meeting and visiting + upon it the distress his Mary had endured. + </p> + <p> + Now that he saw it in the flesh (and it was not unlike his conception), he + came at it with the impulse of one who, straining against a rope, rushes + headlong forward when a knife parts the bond. + </p> + <p> + The impulse thus given more than countered the greater bulk and reach that + should have told in Bob's scale. Bob felt his wits and his courage + simultaneously deserting him before the pell-mell of blows that came + raining against his guard. Whensoever he effected a savage smash that + momentarily checked the fury, it served but to bring back this seemingly + demented young man with a new rush and ardour. + </p> + <p> + Bob gave step by step, struck short-arm, felt the faint saltness of blood + upon his lips, staggered back before a tremendous hit between the eyes, + stumbled, tripped, fell. + </p> + <p> + “Get up!” George bellowed; waited till Bob came rushing, and sent him + reeling again with a broken tooth that cut the brown knuckles. + </p> + <p> + Bob lacked not courage and had proved it, for he was sorely battered. But + the pluck in him was whipped and now venom alone bade him make what hurt + he could. + </p> + <p> + His heavy stick was leaning against the seat. He seized it; swung it high; + crashed a blow that must have split the head it aimed. + </p> + <p> + George slipped aside; the blow missed. He poised himself as Bob, following + the impulse, went staggering by; put all his weight behind a crashing hit + and sent him spinning prone with a blow that was fittingly final to the + exhibition of lusty knocks. + </p> + <p> + Bob propped himself on one arm, rose to his feet; glared; hesitated—then + fell to brushing his knees. + </p> + <p> + It was a masterly white flag. + </p> + <p> + “Had enough?” George panted. “Had enough? Are you whipped, you swine?” + </p> + <p> + Bob assiduously brushed. + </p> + <p> + “When you're better, let me know,” George cried; turned and hurried up the + path whither Mary had disappeared. + </p> + <p> + The forced draught of fury, pain, and exertion sent Bob's breath roaring + in and out in noisy blasts—now long and laboured, now spasmodic + quick. + </p> + <p> + He examined his bill of health and damage. Face everywhere tender to the + touch; clothes dust-covered and torn; both knees of trousers rent; silk + hat stove in when in a backward rush he had set his foot upon it. His + tongue discovered a broken tooth, his handkerchief a bleeding nose, his + fingers blood upon his chin, trickling to his shirt front. + </p> + <p> + So well as might be he brushed his person; straightened his hat; clapped + handkerchief to his mouth; past staring eyes, grinning faces, hurried out + of the Park to bury himself in a cab. + </p> + <h3> + V. + </h3> + <p> + From a window Mrs. Chater saw the bruised figure of her darling boy + alight; with palpitating heart rushed to greet him. + </p> + <p> + “Bob! My boy! My boy! What has happened?” + </p> + <p> + Her boy brushed past; bounded to his room. Laboriously, sick with fear, + the devoted mother toiled in pursuit—found him in his room tearing + off his coat. + </p> + <p> + “My boy! My boy!” + </p> + <p> + Her boy bellowed: “<i>Hot water!</i>” + </p> + <p> + Can a mother's tender care cease towards the child she bare? + </p> + <p> + Oh! needless to ask such a question, you for whom is pictured this devoted + woman plunging at breakneck speed for the bathroom, screaming as she runs: + “Susan! Kate! Jane! Jane! Kate! Susan!” + </p> + <p> + Doors slammed, cries echoed, stairs shook, as trembling servants rushed + responsive. + </p> + <p> + Crashing of cans, rushing of water, called them to the bathroom. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, m'am! What is it?” + </p> + <p> + Water flew in sprays as the agonised mother tested its temperature with + her hands; cans rattled as she kicked them from where, in dragging one + from the shelf, the others had clattered about her feet. + </p> + <p> + Jane, Kate, and Susan clustered in alarm about the door: “Oh, m'am! M'am! + Whatever is it?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater gave no reply. Her can full, she plunged through them. This + way and that they dodged to give her passage; dodge for dodge, demented, + hysterical, she gave them—slopping boiling water on to agonised + toes; bursting through at last; thundering up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + The three plunged after her: “Oh, m'am! M'am! Whatever is it?” + </p> + <p> + The devoted woman paused at the head of the stairs; screamed down orders: + “Sticking-plaster! Lint! Cotton-wool! Mr. Bob has had an accident! + Hot-water bottles! Ice! Doctor! Go for the doctor, one of you!” + </p> + <p> + A figure with battered face above vest and pants bounded from its room. + “No!” Bob roared. “No!” + </p> + <p> + “No!” Mrs. Chater echoed, not knowing to what the negative applied, but + hysterically commanding it. + </p> + <p> + “No!” screamed the agitated servants, one to another. + </p> + <p> + “No! no doctor!” bellowed Bob; grabbed the can from his mother; shot back + to his room. + </p> + <p> + “No doctor!” Mrs. Chater screamed to the white-faced pack upon the stairs; + fled after him. + </p> + <p> + “My boy! Tell me!” + </p> + <p> + Her boy raised his dripping face from the basin. “For God's sake shut the + door!” he roared. + </p> + <p> + She did. “Tell me!” she trembled. + </p> + <p> + “It's that damned girl.” + </p> + <p> + “That girl?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Humfray!” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Humfray! Done that to you! Oh, your poor face! Your poor face!” + </p> + <p> + “No!—no! Do be quiet, mother! Some infernal man she goes about with + in the Park! I spoke to him and he set on me!” + </p> + <p> + “The infamous creature! The wicked, infamous girl! A bad girl, I knew it!—” + </p> + <p> + Agitated tapping at the door: “The cotton-wool m'am.” “Sticking-plaster, + m'am.” “'Ot bottle, m'am.” + </p> + <p> + “Go away!” roared Bob. “Go away! O-oo, my face!” He hopped in wrath and + pain. “Send those damned women away!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater rushed to the door. Passing, she for the first time caught + full sight of her son's face now that the hot water had exposed its wreck. + “Oh, your eyes! Your poor eyes! They're closing up!” + </p> + <p> + Bob staggered to the mirror; discovered the full horror of his marred + beauty. “Curse it!” he groaned and gave an order. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater flew to the telephone. + </p> + <p> + In the office of Mr. Samuel Hock, purveyor of meat, by appointment, to the + Prince of Wales, the telephone bell sharply rang. Mr. Hock stepped to the + receiver, listened, then bellowed an order into the shop: + </p> + <p> + “One of beefsteak to 14 Palace Gardens, sharp!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> + <h3> + A Cab For 14 Palace Gardens. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + With tremendous strides, with emotion roaring in and out his nostrils in + gusty blasts of fury, my passionate George encompassed the Park this way + and that until he came at length upon his trembling Mary. + </p> + <p> + Save for that first blow where Bob's ring had marked his cheek he had + suffered but little in the fight—sufficiently, notwithstanding, + coupled with his colossal demeanour, for Mary's eyes to discover that + something was amiss. + </p> + <p> + She came to him; cried at a little distance: “Oh, dearest, I—I could + not meet you at the seat.” + </p> + <p> + Then she saw more clearly. She asked: “What has happened?” and stood with + quivering lip recording the flutters of her heart. + </p> + <p> + George took one hand; patted it between both his. For the moment his + boiling anger cooled beneath grim relish of his news. “I've pretty well + killed that Chater swine,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Chater?—you've met Mr. Chater?” + </p> + <p> + Now emotion boiled again in her turbulent George. He said: “I saw you run + from him. I saw—what had he been doing?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Georgie!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, never mind. I'd rather not hear. I've paid him for it, whatever it + was.” + </p> + <p> + “You fought? Oh, and your face—and your hand bleeding too!” + </p> + <p> + Tears stood in this ridiculous Mary's eyes. Women so often cry at the + wrong moment. They should more closely study their men in the tremendous + mannish crises that come to some of us. This was no moment for tears; it + was an hour to be Amazon. To be hard-eyed. To count the scalps brought + home by the brave—in delight to squeal over them; in pride to clap + the hands and jump for joy at such big behaviour. + </p> + <p> + My Mary erred in every way. Her moistening eyes annoyed George. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't make a fuss about that, Mary,” he cried irritably. “It's + nothing. Master Bob won't be able to see for a month.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, George, why did you do it?” + </p> + <p> + Then the tremendous young man flamed. “Why did I do it? 'Pon my soul, + Mary, I simply don't understand you sometimes. You've made me stand by and + see you insulted for a month, and then I see him catch hold of you, and + you run, and I go and thrash him, and you say, 'Why did you do it?' <i>Do</i> + it? <i>Do</i> it? Why, good Lord, what would you have had me do—apologise + for you?” + </p> + <p> + She turned away, dropped his hand. + </p> + <p> + My unfortunate George groaned aloud: sprang to her. “Mary, darling, + dearest, you know I didn't mean that.” + </p> + <p> + She kept her face from him; her pretty shoulders heaved. + </p> + <p> + He cried in misery, striving to see her face: “What a brute I am! What a + brute! Mary, Mary, you know I didn't mean that.” + </p> + <p> + She gasped: “You ge-get angry so quick.” + </p> + <p> + “I know, I know. I'm not fit—I couldn't help—Mary, do look + up.” + </p> + <p> + She swallowed a sob; gave him her little hand. + </p> + <p> + He squeezed it, squeezed it as it were between his love for her and the + tremendous passion that was consuming him. Contrition at his sharp words + to her hammered the upper plate, wrath at the manner of her reception of + his news was anvil beneath. The poor fingers horribly suffered. + </p> + <p> + There are conditions of the male mind—and this George was in the + very heart of one—when softness in a woman positively goads to fury. + The mind is in an itching fever, and—like a bull against a gate-post—requires + hard, sharp corners against which to rub and ease the irritation. Comes + the lord and master home sulky or in fury, the wise wife will meet him + with a demeanour so spiked that he may scratch his itching at every turn. + To be soft and yielding is the most fatal conduct; it is to send the + lumbering bull crashing through the gate-post into the lane to seek solace + away from the home paddock. + </p> + <p> + Unversed in these homely recipes, this simple Mary had at least the wit + not to cry “Oh!” in pain and move her hand. They found a seat, and for + good five minutes this turbulent George sat and threshed in his wrath like + a hooked shark—this little hand the rope that held him. Soon its + influence was felt. His tuggings and boundings grew weaker. The venom + oozed out of him. + </p> + <p> + He uncovered the crushed fingers; raising, pressed them to his lips. + </p> + <p> + He groaned. “Now you know me at last.” + </p> + <p> + She patted those brown hands; did not speak. + </p> + <p> + “You know the awful temper I've got,” he went on. “Uncontrollable—angry + even with you—foul brute—” + </p> + <p> + “But I annoyed you, Georgie.” + </p> + <p> + He flung out an accusatory hand against himself. “How? By being sweet and + loving! Why, what a brute I must be!” + </p> + <p> + She told him: “You shan't call yourself names. In fact, you mustn't. + Because that is calling me names too. We belong, Georgie.” + </p> + <p> + The pretty sentiment tickled him. Gloom flew from his brow before sunshine + that took its place. He laughed. “You're a dear, dear old thing.” + </p> + <p> + She gave a whimsical look at him. “I ought to have said at once what I am + going to say now: Did you hurt him much?” + </p> + <p> + “I bashed him!” George said, revelling in it. “I fairly bashed him!” + </p> + <p> + She snuggled against this tremendous fellow. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + It was a park-keeper who, from that opium drug of sweet silence with which + lovers love to dull their senses, recalled them to the urgency for action. + </p> + <p> + The park-keeper led David by one hand, Angela by the other, whence he had + found them wandering. Disappointment that their owner was a protected lady + instead of a nicely-shaped nursemaid whom by this introduction he might + add to his recreations, delivered him of stern reproof at the carelessness + which had let these children go astray. + </p> + <p> + “I would very much like to know,” he concluded, “what their ma would say.” + </p> + <p> + “My plump gentleman,” said George pleasantly, “meet me at this + trysting-place at noon to-morrow, and your desire shall be gratified.” + </p> + <p> + The park-keeper eyed him; thought better of the bitter words he had + contemplated; contented himself with: “Funny, ain't yer?” + </p> + <p> + “Screaming,” said George. “One long roar of mirth. Hundreds turned away + nightly. Early doors threepence extra. Bring the wife.” + </p> + <p> + The park-keeper withdrew with a morose air. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + And now my George and his Mary turned upon the immediate future. Conning + the map of ways and means and roads of action, a desolate and almost + horrifying country presented itself. No path that might be followed + offered pleasant prospects. All led past that ogre's castle at 14 Palace + Gardens; at the head of each stood the ogress shape of Mrs. Chater, + gnashing for blood and bones over the disaster to her first-born. She must + be faced. + </p> + <p> + George flared a torch to light the gloom: “But why should you go near her, + dearest? Let me do it. I'll take the children back. I'll see her. I'll get + your boxes.” + </p> + <p> + Even the sweetest women trudge through life handicapped by the + preposterous burden of wishing to do what their sad little minds hold + right. It is a load which, too firmly strapped, makes them dull companions + on the highway. + </p> + <p> + Mary said: “It wouldn't be <i>right</i>, dear. The children are in my + charge; how could I send them back to their mother in the care of a + strange man? And it wouldn't be right to myself, either. It would look as + if I admitted myself in the wrong. No; I must, must face her.” + </p> + <p> + George's torch guttered; gave gloom again. He tried a second: “Well, I'll + come with you. That's a great idea. She won't dare say much while I'm + there.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it wouldn't be <i>right</i>, Georgie. You oughtn't to come to the + house—to see her—after what you've done to the detestable Bob. + No, I'll go alone and I'll go now. You shall come as far as the top of the + road and there wait.” + </p> + <p> + “And then?” George asked. + </p> + <p> + This was to research the map for rest-houses and for fortunes that might + be won after the ogre castle had been passed. + </p> + <p> + Mary conned and peered until the strain squeezed a little moisture in her + eyes. “I don't know,” she said faintly. + </p> + <p> + Her bold George had to know. “It won't be for very long, dear old girl. + You must find another situation. Till then a lodging. I know a place where + a man I know used to have digs. A jolly old landlady. I'll raise some + money—I'll borrow it.” + </p> + <p> + Mary tried to brighten. “Yes, and I'll go to that agency again. I must, + because I shall have no character, you see. I'll tell her everything quite + truthfully, and I think she'll be nice.” + </p> + <p> + “It's no good waiting,” George said. His voice had the sound of a funeral + bell. + </p> + <p> + Mary arose slowly, white. She said: “Come along.” + </p> + <p> + With a tumbril rumble in their ears, the children dancing ahead, they + started for Palace Gardens. + </p> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <p> + The groans and curses of her adored Bob, his bulgy mouth and shutting + eyes, his tender nose and the encrimsoned water where he had layed his + wounds—these had so acted upon Mrs. Chater's nerves, plunged her + into such vortex of hysteria, that the manner of her reception of Mary was + true reflection of her fears, nothing dissembled. + </p> + <p> + Withdrawing her agitated face from the dining-room window as Mary and the + children approached, she bounded heavily to the door; flung it ajar; + collapsed to her knees upon the mat; clasped David and Angela to that + heaving bosom. + </p> + <p> + “Safe!” she wailed. “Safe! Thank God, my little lambs are safe!” + </p> + <p> + Distraught she swayed and hugged; kissed and moaned again. + </p> + <p> + David pressed away. “You smell like whisky, mummie,” he said. + </p> + <p> + It was a dash of icy water on a fainting fit; wonderfully it strung the + demented woman's senses. She pushed her little lambs from her; fixed Mary + with awful eye. + </p> + <p> + “So you've come back—<i>Miss?</i>” + </p> + <p> + Mary quivered. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder you dared. I wonder you had the boldness to face me after your + wicked behaviour. You've got nothing to say for yourself. I'm not + surprised—” + </p> + <p> + Mary began: “Mrs. Chater, I—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how can you? How can you dare defend yourself? Never, never in all my + born days have I met with such ingratitude; never have I been deceived + like this. I took you in. I felt sorry for you. I fed you, clothed you, + cared for you, treated you as one of my own family; and this is my reward. + There you stand, unable to say a word—” + </p> + <p> + “If you think, Mrs. Chater—” + </p> + <p> + “Don't <i>speak</i>! I won't hear you. Here have I day after day been + entrusting my beloved lambs to your care, and heaven alone knows what + risks they have run. My boy—my Bob, who would die rather than get a + living soul into trouble—sees you with this man you have been going + about with. He does his duty to me, his mother, and to my precious lambs, + his brother and sister, by reproving you, and you set this man—this + low hired bully—upon him to murder him. I'll have the law on the + coward. I'll punish him and I'll punish you, miss. No wonder you were + frightened when my Bob caught you. No wonder.” + </p> + <p> + “That is untrue, Mrs. Chater.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't <i>speak!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “I will speak. I shall speak. It is untrue.” + </p> + <p> + “You dare—” + </p> + <p> + “It is a lie. Yes, I don't mind what I say when you speak to me like that. + It is a wicked lie.” + </p> + <p> + “Girl—!” + </p> + <p> + “If your son told you he caught me with the man who thrashed him as he + deserved, he told you a lie. He never saw me with him. He followed me into + the Park this morning and tried to repeat what he did on Friday night. He + is a coward and a cad. The man to whom I am engaged caught him at it and + thrashed him as he deserved. There! Now you know the truth!” + </p> + <p> + Very white, my ridiculous Mary pressed her hand to her panting breast; + stopped, choked by the wild words that came tumbling up into her mouth. + </p> + <p> + Very red, swelling and panting in turkey-cock fury, Mrs. Chater, towering, + swallowed and gasped, breathless before this vixenish attack. + </p> + <p> + But she was the first to find speech; and incoherently she stormed as at a + scratching do those persons whose true selves lie beneath a tissue film of + polish. + </p> + <p> + She bubbled and panted: “Oh, you wicked girl!—oh, you wicked girl!—oh, + you wicked girl!—bold as brass-calling me a liar—<i>me</i>—and + my battered boy—engaged indeed!—I'll have the law and the + police and the judges—my solicitors—libel and assault, and + slander and attempted murder—boxes searched—my precious lambs + to hear their mother spoken to like this—get out of the hat-rack, + David, and go upstairs this instant—Angela, don't stand there—if + I wasn't a lady I'd box your ears, miss—only a week ago didn't I + give you a black silk skirt of mine?—and fed you like a princess, + with a soft feather pillow too, because you said the bolster made your + head ache—servants to wait on you hand and foot—and this is my + reward—how I keep my hands off you heaven only knows—but you + shall suffer, miss—oh, yes you shall—I'll give you in charge—I'll + call a policeman.” + </p> + <p> + She turned towards the kitchen stairs; screamed “Susan! Kate! Jane! + Susan!” + </p> + <p> + Small need to bellow. Around the staircase corner three white-capped heads—Kate + holding back Susan, Susan restraining Jane, Jane holding Kate—had + been with delighted eyes and straining ears bathing in this rare scene. + With glad unanimity they broke their restraint one upon the other; crushed + pell-mell, hustling up the narrow stairs. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater plumped back into a chair; with huge hands fanned her heated + face. “Fetch a policeman!” + </p> + <p> + They plunged for the door. + </p> + <p> + Bob's swollen countenance came over the banisters. He roared “Stop!” + </p> + <p> + Kate, Jane and Susan swung between the conflicting authorities. + </p> + <p> + “Call a policeman! Summon a constable! Fetch an officer!” In gusty breaths + from behind Mrs. Chater's hands, working like a red paddle-wheel, came the + commands. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” roared Bob; and to enforce pushed forward the battered face till + it stuck out flat over the hall. + </p> + <p> + His alarmed mother screamed: “Bob, you'll fall over the banisters!” + </p> + <p> + The two kept up a battledore and shuttlecock of agitated conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Well, stop those women!” Bob cried; “for God's sake, stop them, mother! + What on earth are you thinking of?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll give her in charge!” + </p> + <p> + “You can't, you can't. Oh, my God, what a house this is!” + </p> + <p> + “She called me a liar!” + </p> + <p> + “You can't charge her for that.” + </p> + <p> + “She half murdered you!” + </p> + <p> + “She never touched me. Why don't you do as I told you? Why don't you send + her away?” + </p> + <p> + “Mercy, Bob! you'll fall and kill yourself!” + </p> + <p> + “Do as I say, then! Do as I say!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, put back your head! Put back your head.” + </p> + <p> + “Do as I say, then!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater stopped the paddle-wheel; rose to her feet. Bob's ghastly face + drew in to safer limits. She addressed Mary: “Again my boy has interceded + for you. Oh, how you must feel!” She addressed the maids: “Is her box + packed?” + </p> + <p> + They chorused “Yes”; pointed, and Mary saw her tin box, corded, set + against the wall. + </p> + <p> + “Call a cab,” Mrs. Chater commanded; and as the whistle blew she turned + again upon Mary. + </p> + <p> + “Now, miss, you may go. I pack you off as you deserve. But before you go—” + </p> + <p> + The battered face shot out again above the banisters: “Pay her her wages + and send her away, mother. Do, for goodness' sake, send her away!” + </p> + <p> + “Wages! Certainly not! Mercy! Your head again! Go back, Bob!” + </p> + <p> + The maddened, pain-racked Bob bellowed: “Oh, stop it! stop it! I shall go + mad in a minute. She is entitled to her wages. Pay her.” + </p> + <p> + “I won't!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I will. Susan! Susan, come up here and take this money. How much is + it?” + </p> + <p> + “She is not to be paid,” Mrs. Chater trumpeted. + </p> + <p> + “She is to be paid,” bawled her son. “Do you want an action brought + against you? Oh, my God, what a house this is!” + </p> + <p> + “My boy! You will fall! Very well, I'll pay her.” Mrs. Chater turned to + Mary. “Again and yet again my son intercedes for you, miss. Oh, how you + must feel!” She grabbed around her dress for her pocket; found a purse; + produced coins; banged them upon the table. “There!” + </p> + <p> + And now my Mary, who had stood upright breasting these successive surges, + spoke her little fury. + </p> + <p> + With a hand she swept the table, sending the coins flying this way and + that—with them a card salver, a vase, a pile of prayer-books. With + her little foot she banged the floor. + </p> + <p> + “I would not touch your money—your beastly money. You are + contemptible and vulgar, and I despise you. Mr. Chater, if you are a man + you will tell your mother why you were thrashed. Do you dare to say you + interfered because you found me with someone? Do you dare?” + </p> + <p> + With masterly strategy Bob drove home a flank attack. To have affirmed he + did dare might lead to appalling outburst from this little vixen. He said + very quietly, as though moved by pity: “Please do not make matters worse + by blustering, Miss Humfray.” He sighed: “I bear you no ill-will.” + </p> + <p> + My poor Mary allowed herself to be denuded of self-possession. His words + put her control to flight; left her exposed. Tears started in her eyes. + She made a little rush for the stairs. “Oh, you coward!” she cried. “You + coward! I will make you say the truth.” + </p> + <p> + Would she have clutched the skirts of his dressing-gown, forgetting the + proper modesty of a nice maiden, and dragged him down the stairs? Would + she indelicately have pursued him to his very bedroom, and there, + regardless of his scanty dress, have assaulted him? + </p> + <p> + Bob believed she would. It is so easy for the world's heroines to remain + calm against attack. My Mary was made of commoner stuff—the + wretched, baser clay of which not I, but my neighbours, not you, but your + acquaintances, are made. + </p> + <p> + Bob believed she would. He cried, “Send her away! Why the devil don't you + send her away?”; gathered his skirts; fled for the safety of a locked + door. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater believed she would. Mrs. Chater plunged across the hall; + stood, an impassable and panting guardian, upon the lowermost step. Her + outstretched arm stayed Mary; a voice announced, “The cab'm.” + </p> + <p> + My Mary stood a moment; little fists clenched, flashing eyes; blinked + against the premonition of a rush of tears; then, as they came, turned for + the door. + </p> + <p> + “Go!” trumpeted Mrs. Chater. “Go!” + </p> + <p> + Mary was upon the mat when Angela and David made a little rush; caught her + skirts. The alarming scenes had hurtled in sequence too rapid and too + violent to be by the children understood. But a scrap here and a scrap + there they had caught, retained, correctly interpreted; and the whole, + though it supplied no reason, told clearly that their adored Mary was + going from them. + </p> + <p> + “You're coming back soon, aren't you?” David cried. + </p> + <p> + “You're not going away, are you, Miss Humf'ay?” implored Angela. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chater shrilled: “Children, come away. Come here at once.” + </p> + <p> + Mary dropped one knee upon the mat; caught her arms about the children. + She pressed a cool face against each side her wet and burning countenance, + gave kisses, and upon the added stress of this new emotion choked: + “Good-bye, little ducklings!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, darling, <i>darling</i> Miss Humf'ay, we <i>will</i> be good if + you'll stay!” They felt this was the desperate threat that so often + followed their misdemeanours put into action. + </p> + <p> + She held them, hugging them. “It isn't that. You have been good.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you said you would stay for ever and ever if we were good.” + </p> + <p> + “Not ever and ever; I said—I said perhaps a fairy prince would come + to take me. Didn't I?” + </p> + <p> + This was the romance that forbade tears. But David had doubts. He regarded + the hansom at the door: “That's a cab, not a carriage. Fairy princes don't + come in cabs.” + </p> + <p> + “The prince is waiting. Kiss me, darling Davie. Angie, dear, dear Angle, + kiss me.” + </p> + <p> + She rose. Mrs. Chater had come from the stairs, now laid hands upon the + small people and dragged them back from the pretty figure about which they + clung. + </p> + <p> + They screamed, “Let me go!” + </p> + <p> + David roared; dropped prone upon the mat to kick and howl: “Take away your + <i>hand</i>, mother!” + </p> + <p> + Angela gasped: “Oh, comeback, comeback, darling Miss Humf'ay!” + </p> + <p> + With a glare of defiance into Mrs. Chater's stormy eyes, my Mary stooped + over David. + </p> + <p> + “David!” The calm ring of the tones he had learned to obey checked his + clamour, his plunging kicks. She stooped; kissed him. “Be good as gold,” + she commanded. “Promise.” + </p> + <p> + “Good as gold—yes—p'omise,” David choked. + </p> + <p> + Angela was given, and gave, the magic formula. Mary stepped back. Susan + slammed the door. + </p> + <p> + With quivering lips my Mary walked to the cab. + </p> + <p> + “Drive down the street,” she choked; lay back against the cushions; gave + herself to shaking sobs. + </p> + <h3> + V. + </h3> + <p> + Her George met her a very few yards down the street. He gave an order to + the cabman and sat beside her. + </p> + <p> + It was not long before her grief was hushed. She dried her eyes; nestled + against this wonderful fellow who, as love had now constituted her world, + was the solace against every trouble that could come to her, the shield + against any power that might arise to do her hurt. + </p> + <p> + They debated the position and found it desperate; discussed the immediate + future to discover it threatening. Yet the gloom was irradiated by the + glowing light of the prospective future; the rumbling of present fears was + lost in the tinkling music of their voices, striking notes from love. + </p> + <p> + The cab twisted this way and that; clattered over Battersea Bridge, down + the Park, to the right past the Free Library, and so into Meath Street and + to the clean little house of the landlady whom George knew. + </p> + <p> + To her, in the tiny sitting-room, the story was told. + </p> + <p> + It appeared that she had never yet taken a lady lodger. In her street + ladies were regarded with suspicion; that no petticoats were ever to be + fetched across the threshold was a rule to which each medical student who + engaged her rooms must first subscribe. + </p> + <p> + None the less she was here acquiescent. She knew George well; had for him + an affection above that which commonly she entertained for the noisy young + men who were her means of livelihood. Mary should pay for the little back + bedroom that Mr. Thornton had; and, free of charge, should have use of the + sitting-room rented by Mr. Grainger. There would be no lodgers until the + medical schools reopened in October. + </p> + <p> + So it was settled—and together in the sitting-room where Mrs. + Pinking made them a little lunch again they debated the immediate future. + It was three weeks before George's examination was due. Again he declared + himself confident that, when actually he had passed, his uncle would not + refuse the 400 pounds which meant the world to them—which meant the + tight little practice at Runnygate. But the intervening weeks were + meanwhile to be faced. Mary must have home. At the Agency she must pour + forth her tale and seek new situation till they could be married. If the + Agency failed them—They shuddered. + </p> + <p> + Revolving desperate schemes for the betterment of this position into which + with such alarming suddenness they had been thrust, George took his leave. + He would have tarried, but his Mary was insistent that his work must not + be interfered with. Upon its successful exploitation everything now + depended. + </p> + <p> + Brightly she kissed her George good-bye. He was not to worry about her. + She was to be shut from his mind. To-morrow she would go to the Agency. He + might lunch with her, and, depend upon it, she would greet him with great + news. + </p> + <p> + So they parted. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK IV. + </h2> + <h3> + In which this History begins to rattle. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <p> + The Author Meanders Upon The Enduring Hills; And The Reader Will Lose + Nothing By Not Accompanying Him. + </p> + <p> + In pursuit of our opinion that the novel should hark back to its origin + and be as a story that is told by mouth to group of listeners, here we + momentarily break the thread. + </p> + <p> + It is an occasion for advertisement. + </p> + <p> + As when the personal narrator, upon resumption of his history, will at a + point declare, “Now we come to the exciting part,” so now do I. + </p> + <p> + Heretofore we have somewhat dragged. We have been as host and visitor at + tea in the drawing-room. Guests have arrived; to you I have introduced + them, and after the shortest spell they have taken their leave. + </p> + <p> + My Mary and my George—favoured guests—have sat with us through + our meal; but how fleeting our converse with those others—with Mr. + William Wyvern, with Margaret, with Mrs. Major and with Mr. Marrapit! I + grant you cause to grumble at their introduction, so purposeless has been + their part. I grant you they have been as the guests at whose arrival, + disturbing the intimate chatter, impatient glances are exchanged; at whose + departure there is shuffle of relief. + </p> + <p> + Well, I promise you we shall now link our personages and set our history + bounding to its conclusion. We have collected them; now to switch on the + connection and set them acting one against the other until the sparks do + fly; watching those sparks shall be your entertainment. + </p> + <p> + The switch which thus sets active the play of forces I shall call + circumstance. If it has been long delayed, I have the precedent of all the + story of human life as my excuse. For we are the children of circumstance. + We move each in our little circle by a stout hedge encompassed. + Circumstance suddenly will break the wall: some fellow man or woman is + flung against us, and immediately the quiet ambulation of our little + circle is for some conflict sharp exchanged. To-day we are at peace with + the world, to-morrow warring with all mankind. + </p> + <p> + I say with all mankind, because so narrow and so selfish is our outlook + upon life that one single man or woman—a dullard neighbour or a + silly girl—who may interfere with us, throws into turmoil our whole + existence. Walls of impenetrable blackness shut out all life save only + this intruder and ourself; that other person becomes our world—engaging + our complete faculties. + </p> + <p> + Deeper misfortune cannot be conceived. It is through allowing such + occurrences to crush us that brows are wrinkled before their time; nerves + broken-edged while yet they should be firmly strung; death reached ere yet + the proper span of life is lived. + </p> + <p> + For these unduly wrinkled brows, too early broken nerves, too soon + encountered graves, civilised man has agreed upon an excuse. He names it + the strain of life in modern conditions. There is no body in this plea. It + is not the conditions that matter; it is our manner of receiving those + conditions. Bend to them and they will crush; face them and they become of + no avail; allow them to be the Whole of life, and immediately they are + given so great a weight that to withstand them is impossible; regard them + in their proper proportion to the scheme of things, and they become of + airy nothingness. + </p> + <p> + For if we regulate each to its right importance all that surrounds us, not + forgetting that since life is transient time is the only ultimate standard + of value, how unutterably insignificant must small human troubles appear + in their relation to the whole scheme of things, to the enduring hills, + the immense seas, vast space. + </p> + <p> + Gain strength from strength. Compare vexations encompassed by the artifice + of man with the tremendous life that is mothered by nature. + </p> + <p> + Gain strength from strength. Set troubles against the enduring hills, + misfortunes against the immense seas, perplexities against vast space, + torments against the stout trees. Learn to take tribute of strength from + every object that is built of strength—the strength of solidity that + a stout beam may give, the strength of beauty that from a picture or a + statuary irradiates. + </p> + <p> + Gain strength from strength. It is a first principle of warfare to band + undisciplined troops with tried regiments, to shoulder recruits with + veterans. The horse-breaker will set the timid colt in harness with the + steady mare. Thus is stiffening and a sense of security imparted to the + weaker spirit; timidity oozes and is burned by the steady flame of courage + that from the stronger emanates. In the heat of that flame latent strength + warms and kindles in the weaker. + </p> + <p> + Gain strength from strength. Seek intercourse with the minds that are + above you; if not to be encountered, they are to be purchased in books. + Avoid communion with the small minds below you and of your level. + </p> + <p> + No man, nor book, nor thing can be touched without virtue passing thence + into you. See to it that who or what you touch gives you strength, not + weakness; uplifts, not debases. The aspiring athlete does not seek to + match his strength against inferiors. These give him—easy victory. + Contact with them is for him effortless; they tend to draw him to their + plane. Rather, being wise, he shuns them to pit his prowess against such + as can give him best, from whom he may learn, out of whom he will take + virtue, by whom he will be raised to all that is best in him. Gain + strength from strength. The attributes strength and weakness are as + infectious as the plague. Make your bed so that you may lie with strength + and catch his affection. + </p> + <p> + I do not pretend that these are thoughts which influenced the persons of + my history. My unthinking George and my simple Mary would care nothing for + such things. Sight of the enduring hills would evoke in my George the + uttered belief that they would be an infernal sweat to climb; sound of the + immense seas if in anger would move my Mary to prayer for all those in + peril on the wave, if in lapping tranquillity to sentimental thoughts of + her George. But they had laughter and they had love. Adversity can make + little fight against those lusty weapons. + </p> + <p> + And now we have an exquisite balcony scene and rare midnight alarms for + your delectation. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <h3> + An Exquisite Balcony Scene; And Something About Sausages. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + On that day when George left his Mary at the little lodgings in Meath + Street, Battersea, Bill Wyvern returned to Paitley Hill after absence from + home for a week upon a visit. + </p> + <p> + His Margaret was his first thought upon his arrival. Letters between the + pair were, by the sharpness of Mr. Marrapit's eye, compelled to be + exchanged not through the post but by medium of a lovers' postal box + situate in the hole of a tree in that shrubbery of Herons' Holt where they + were wont by stealth to meet. Thus when Bill, upon this day of his return, + scaled the tremendous wall and groped among the bushes, he saw the + trysting bower innocent of his love—then searched and found a + letter. + </p> + <p> + A sad little note for lover's heart. Mr. Marrapit, it said, abed of a + chill, prevented Margaret meeting her Bill that afternoon. Her father must + be constantly ministered; impossible to say when she would be released. + She heard him calling, she must fly to him. With fondest love. No time for + more. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + The lines chilled Bill's heart. His was a fidgety and nervous love that + took fright at shadow of doubt. The week that had divided him from + Margaret was the longest period they had not embraced since their + discovery one of another. Was it not possible, he tortured himself, that + loss of his presence had blurred his image in her heart? Countless heroes + of his own stories who thus had suffered rose to assure him that possible + indeed it was. The more he brooded upon it the more probable did it + become. + </p> + <p> + Bedtime found him desolated. In apprehension he paced his room. The + thought of sleep with this devil of doubt to thump his pillow was + impossible. Leaning from his window he gazed upon the stars and groaned; + dropped eyes to the lawn, silvered in moonlight, and started beneath the + prick of a sudden thought. It was a night conceived for lovers' tryst. He + would seek his Margaret's open window, whistle her from her bed, and bring + this damned doubt of her to reality or knock the ghostly villain dead. + </p> + <p> + It was an inspiriting thought, and Bill started to whistle upon it until + he remembered the demeanour in which he would have sent forth one of his + own heroes upon such a mission. “Dark eyes gleaming strangely from a pale, + set face,” he would have written. Bill's eyes were of a clearest, + childlike blue which interfered a little with the proper conception of the + role he was to play; but blanketing his spirits in melancholy he stepped + from his room and passed down the stairs. + </p> + <p> + That favoured bull-terrier Abiram, sleeping in the hall, drummed a tattoo + of welcome upon the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Chuck it,” said Bill morosely. + </p> + <p> + The “faithful hound” that gives solace to the wounded heart is a pretty + enough thing in stories; Abiram had had no training for the part. This dog + associated his master not with melancholy that needed caressing but with + wild “rags” that gave and demanded tremendous spirits. + </p> + <p> + Intelligence, however, showed the wise creature that the tone of that + command meant he was to be excluded from whatever wild rag might be now + afoot. It was not to be borne. Therefore, to lull suspicion, Abiram ceased + his drumming; rose when Bill had passed; behind him crept stealthily; and + upon the door being opened bounded around his master's legs and into the + moonlight with a joyous yelp. + </p> + <p> + Fearful of arousing Korah and Dathan in their kennels to tremendous din if + he bellowed orders, Bill hissed commands advising Abiram to return indoors + under threat of awful penalties. + </p> + <p> + Abiram frisked and skipped upon the lawn like a young lamb. + </p> + <p> + Bill changed commands for missiles. + </p> + <p> + Abiram, entering into the thing with rare spirit, caught, worried, and + killed each clod of earth hurled at him, then bounded expectant forward + for the next sacrifice that would be thrown for his delight in this + entrancing game. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” spoke Bill between his teeth. “Very well. You jolly well + come, my boy. Wait till you get near enough for me to catch you, that's + all.” + </p> + <p> + Beneath this understanding they moved forward across the lawn and down the + road; Abiram sufficiently in the rear to harass rats that might be going + about their business, without himself being in the zone of his master's + strength. + </p> + <p> + Heaving a sigh burthened with fond memory as he passed the wall of Herons' + Holt where it gave upon the secret meeting-place in the shrubbery, Bill + skirted the grounds; for the second time in his life passed through the + gate and up the drive. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + Well he knew his adored's window. From the shrubbery she had pointed it + him. Now with a bang of the heart he observed that the bottom sash stood + open so that night breezes, mingling freely with the perfumes of her + apartment, unhindered could bear in to her his tremulous love-signals. + </p> + <p> + He set a low whistle upon the air. It was not louder, he felt, than the + agitated banging of his heart that succeeded it. + </p> + <p> + Again he whistled, and once again. There was a rustling from within. + </p> + <p> + “Margaret!” he softly called. “Margaret!” + </p> + <p> + She appeared. The blessed damosel leaned out. About her yearning face the + long dark hair abundantly fell; her pretty bed-gown, unbuttoned low, gave + him glimpse of snowy bosom, beautifully rounded. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Bill!” she cried, stretching her arms. + </p> + <p> + Then, glancing downwards at her person, she stepped back swiftly. + Reappearing, the soft round of her twin breasts was not to view. + </p> + <p> + She had buttoned up her night-dress. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Bill!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Margaret!” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Wow!</i>” spoke Abiram in nerve-shattering welcome. “<i>Wow!</i>” + </p> + <p> + The blessed damosel fled. Bill plunged a kick. Abiram took the skirt of + it; waddled away across the lawn, his waving stern expressing pleasure at + having at once shown his politeness by bidding a lady good evening, and at + being, like true gentleman, well able to take a hint. + </p> + <p> + Bill put upon the breeze: + </p> + <p> + “It's all right. He's gone.” + </p> + <p> + No answer. Shuddering with terror lest that hideous <i>wow!</i> had + disturbed the house the blessed damosel lay trembling abed, the coverings + pressed about her straining ears. + </p> + <p> + “He's gone,” Bill strained again, his larynx torn with the rasp of + whispers that must penetrate like shouts and yet speed soft-shod. “He's + gone!” + </p> + <p> + Margaret put a white leg to the ground—listened; drew forth its + companion—listened; glimpsed her white legs; shuddered at such + immodesty with a man so close; veiled them to their toes with her + bed-gown; listened; stepped again to the window. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Bill!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Margaret!” + </p> + <p> + “Has anyone heard, do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “My darling, not a soul. It sounded loud to us. Oh, Margaret—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush! Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know why I am come?” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!—no.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought—from your note—that you didn't care to see me + again. I thought-being away like that—that you found you didn't-love + me after all. Oh, I was tortured, Margaret. Oh—!” + </p> + <p> + “Hush! Listen!” + </p> + <p> + “Damn!” said Bill. + </p> + <p> + The blessed damosel poked her beautiful head again into the night. “It's + all right. I thought I heard a sound. We must be careful.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Margaret, I was tortured—racked. I had to come to you. Tell me + I was wrong in thinking—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Bill, Bill, I—” + </p> + <p> + This girl was well-nigh in a swoon of delicious excitement. Emotion took + her and must be gulped ere she found voice. She stretched her arms down + towards him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Bill, I thought so, too.” + </p> + <p> + A steely pang struck at his heart. “You thought you didn't love me after + all?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, no.” + </p> + <p> + Emotion dragged her from the window to her waist. Her long hair cascaded + down to him so that the delicious tips, kissing his face, might by his + lips be kissed. + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” she breathed; “I thought the same of you. I thought you might + have found—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” + </p> + <p> + “Damn!” said Bill. + </p> + <p> + She reappeared; again her tresses trickled to him. “It's all right. I + thought you might have found you didn't love me after all. Dearest, not + hearing from you—” + </p> + <p> + In sympathy of spirit Bill groaned: “What could I do?” + </p> + <p> + She clasped her hands in a delicious ecstasy. “I know, I know. But you + know how foolish I am. I felt—oh, Bill, forgive me!—I felt + that, if you had really cared, a way of sending me a message might have + been found. Of course, it was impossible. And there was more than that. + When we parted last week, I thought you seemed not to care very much—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Margaret!” + </p> + <p> + “I know, I know. I know now how foolish I was, but that is what I thought—and, + Bill, it tortured me. I've not been able to sleep at nights. That is how I + was awake just now.” + </p> + <p> + “Margaret, I believe you're crying.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm so—so happy now.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, so am I! Aren't you glad I came, Margaret?” + </p> + <p> + She murmured, “Oh, Bill!”; gave him a smile that pictured her answer. + </p> + <p> + Mutually they gazed for a space, drinking delight. + </p> + <p> + Her thirst quenched, Margaret said: + </p> + <p> + “Bill, those nights, those terrible nights when I have been doubtful of + you, filled me with thoughts that shaped into a poem last night.” + </p> + <p> + “A poem to me?” + </p> + <p> + “About us. Shall I read it?—now that the doubt is all over.” + </p> + <p> + He begged her read. + </p> + <p> + She was a space from his sight; then, bending down to him, in her hand + paper of palest heliotrope, whispered to him by light of the beautiful + moon: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Our meeting! Do you remember, dear, + How Nature knew we met? + Twilight soft with a gentle breeze + Bearing scent of the slumbering seas; + Music sweet—'twas a nightingale, + Trilling and sobbing from laugh to wail— + Golden sky that was flecked with red + (Ribands of rose on a golden bed). + Ah, love! when first we met!” + </pre> + <p> + She paused. “It was raining as a matter of fact, dearest,” she whispered, + “and just after breakfast. But you know what I mean. That is the imagery + of it—as it seemed to me.” + </p> + <p> + Bill said: “And to me; a beautiful imagery.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled in the modest pride of authorship: “Oh, it's nothing, really. + You know how these things come. To you in prose, to me in song. One has to + set them down.” + </p> + <p> + “One is merely the instrument,” Bill said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the instrument.” She hugged the phrase. “The <i>instrument</i>. How + cleverly you put things!” + </p> + <p> + Bill disavowed the gift. Margaret breathed, “Oh, you do; I have so often + noticed it.” Bill again denied. + </p> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <p> + Conventionality demanded this little exchange of them, and to-day the + empress sway of conventionality is rarely rebelled. Even, as here, when + treading the path of love, the journey must constantly be stopped while + handfuls of the sweet-smelling stuff are tossed about our persons. Neglect + the duty and you must walk alone. For to neglect conventionality is like + going abroad without clothes; the naked man appears. Now, nothing can be + more utterly horrid to our senses than a stark woman or stark man walking + down the street. We should certainly pull aside the blind to have a peep, + and the more we could see of the nakedness the further would we crane our + heads (provided no one was by to watch); but to go out and chat, to be + seen in company with the naked creature, is another matter. We would + sooner chop off our legs. So with the conventions. The fewer of them you + wear, the more naked (that is to say, real) do you become. Eyes will poke + at you round the blinds, but you must walk quickly past the gate, please. + If you will not go through the machine and come out a nice smooth sausage, + well, you must remain original flesh and gristle; but you will smell + horrid in nice noses. + </p> + <p> + Is it not warming, as you read this, to know perfectly well that you are + not one of the sausages? + </p> + <h3> + V. + </h3> + <p> + When they had sufficiently daubed themselves, Margaret asked: + </p> + <p> + “Shall I read the next verse? That was the imagery of our meeting; this of + our parting.” + </p> + <p> + Bill gulped. This man was fondling the scented tresses that trickled about + his face; speech was a little difficult. + </p> + <p> + She put her page beneath the moon; gave her voice to its rapture: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Our parting! Do you remember, dear, + How Nature our folly knew? + Mournful swish of the sobbing rain; + Distant surge of the Deep in pain; + Whispering wail of the wandering wind, + Seeking, sobbing, a rest to find; + Fitful gleam from a troubled sky + (Nature weeping to see love die). + Ah, love, when last we met! +</pre> + <p> + “It was a perfect day, really,” she said. “Very hot, and just before + lunch, do you remember? But there, again, it is the <i>imagery</i> of it + as it seemed to our inner selves. It comes to one, and one is the <i>instrument</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Bill's voice was hoarse. “Margaret, come down to me,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I dare not.” + </p> + <p> + “You must. I must touch you—kiss you. You must come down!” + </p> + <p> + “Bill, I dare not; I should be heard.” + </p> + <p> + He bitted his next words as they came galloping up. Dare he give them + rein? And then again he bathed in the ecstasy of the scene. The black + square of the open window; the scented roses that framed it; the silver + night that lit its picture—her dusky face between her streaming + hair, her white arms, bare to where the pushed-back sleeves gave them to + the soft breeze to kiss, the soft outline of her breast where the press of + her weight drew close her gown. + </p> + <p> + It was not to be borne. The bitted words lashed from his hold. He gasped: + </p> + <p> + “Then I am coming up!” + </p> + <p> + Was she aghast at him? he asked himself. He stood half-checked while her + steady eyes left his face, roamed from him—contrasting, as ashamed + he felt, the purity of the still night with the clamour of his turbulent + passions—and settled on an adjacent flowerbed. + </p> + <p> + At last she spoke, very calmly. + </p> + <p> + “There is a potting-box just there,” she said. “If you turned it on end + you could reach the window, and then—” + </p> + <p> + The box gave him two feet of reach. He jumped for the ledge—caught + it; pulled; fetched the curve of an arm over the sill. + </p> + <p> + Then between earth and paradise he hung limp; for a sudden horror was in + his Margaret's eyes. + </p> + <p> + She put upon his brow a hand that pressed him back; gave words to her + pictured alarm: “A step upon the gravel!” + </p> + <p> + 'Twixt earth and window, with dangling legs and clutching arms, in + muscle-racking pain he hung. + </p> + <p> + Truly a step, and then another step. + </p> + <p> + And then a very tornado of sound beat furiously upon the trembling night; + with it a flash; from it the pattering of a hundred bullets. + </p> + <p> + Someone had discharged a gun. + </p> + <p> + As Satan was hurled, so, plumb out of the gates of Paradise, Bill fell. + And now the still air was lashed into a fury of sound-waves, tearing this + way and that in twenty keys; now the sleeping garden was torn by rushing + figures, helter-skelter for life and honour. + </p> + <p> + Sounds!—the melancholy bellow of that gardener, Mr. Fletcher, as the + recoil of the bell-mouthed blunderbuss he had fired hurled him prone upon + the gravel; the dreadful imprecations of Bill striving to clear his leg of + the potting-box through whose side it had plunged; piercing screams of + Mrs. Major from a ground-floor room; shrills of alarm from Mr. Marrapit; + <i>gurr-r-ing</i> yelps from Abiram in ecstasy of man-hunt. + </p> + <p> + Rushing figures!—Bill, freed from his box, at top speed towards the + shrubbery; Mr. Fletcher, up from his fall, with tremendous springs + bounding across the lawn; Abiram in hurtling pursuit. + </p> + <p> + More sounds!—panic screams from Mr. Fletcher, heavily labouring; the + protest of a window roughly raised; from George's head, thrust into the + night: “Yi! Yi! Yi! Hup, then! Good dog! Sock him! Sock him! Yi! Yi! Yi!” + </p> + <p> + We must seek the fuse that touched off this hideous turbulence. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <h3> + Alarums And Excursions By Night. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + We are going into a lady's bedroom, but I promise you the thing shall be + nicely done: there shall not be a blush. + </p> + <p> + It was midnight when Bill Wyvern projected the scheme whose execution we + have followed through sweetness to disaster. Two hours earlier the + Marrapit household had sought its beds. + </p> + <p> + It was Mr. Marrapit's wise rule that each member of his establishment + should pass before him as he or she sought their chambers. Night is the + hour when the thoughts take on unbridled licence; and he would send his + household to sleep each with some last admonition to curb fantastic + wanderings of the mind. + </p> + <p> + Upon this night Mr. Marrapit was himself abed of the chill that Margaret + had mentioned in her note to Bill. But the review was not therefore + foregone. Upon his back, night-capped head on pillow propped, he lay as + the minute-hand of his clock ticked towards ten. + </p> + <p> + His brow ruffled against a sound without his door. He called: + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Armitage!” + </p> + <p> + “Sir?” spoke Mrs. Armitage through the oak. + </p> + <p> + “Breathe less stertorously.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Armitage, his cook, waiting outside upon the mat, gulped wrath; + respirated through open mouth. + </p> + <p> + The clock at Mr. Marrapit's elbow gave the first chime of ten. Instantly + Mrs. Armitage tapped. + </p> + <p> + “Enter,” said Mr. Marrapit. + </p> + <p> + She waddled her stout figure to him. Behind her Clara and Ada, those trim + maids, took place. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit addressed her. “To-morrow, Mrs. Armitage, arouse your girls + at six. Speed them at their toilet; set them to clean your flues.” He + glanced at a tablet taken from beneath his pillow. “At 4.6 this afternoon + I smelt soot.” + </p> + <p> + “The flues were cleaned this morning, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Untrue. Your girls were late. Prone in suffering upon my couch, my ears + tell me all that is accomplished in every part of the house. Ten minutes + after your girls descended I heard the kitchen fire roar. I suspect + paraffin.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Armitage wriggled to displace the blame. “I rose them at six, sir. + They sleep that heavy and they take that long to dressing, it's a wonder + to me they ever do get down.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit addressed the sluggards. “Shun the enervating couch. Spring + to the call. Cleanliness satisfied, adorn not the figure; pursue the + duties. Ponder this. Seek help to effect it. Contrive a special prayer. To + your beds.” + </p> + <p> + They left him; upon the mat encountered Frederick, and him, in abandon of + relief, dug vitally with vulgar thumbs. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + Squirming, Frederick, the gardener's boy, advanced to the bedside. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit sternly regarded him: “Recite your misdeeds.” + </p> + <p> + “I've done me jobs, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Prostrated, I cannot check your testimony. One awful eye above alone can + tell. Upon your knees this night search stringently your heart. Bend.” + </p> + <p> + Frederick inclined his neck until his forehead was upon the coverlet. Mr. + Marrapit scanned the neck. + </p> + <p> + “Behind the ears are stale traces. Cleanse abundantly. To your bed.” + </p> + <p> + Without the door Frederick encountered Mr. Fletcher. “You let me catch you + reading abed to-night,” Mr. Fletcher warned him. + </p> + <p> + “Cleanse yer blarsted ear-'oles,” breathed Frederick, pushing past. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + Mr. Fletcher moved in to the presence. + </p> + <p> + “Is all securely barred, bolted and shuttered?” Mr. Marrapit asked. + </p> + <p> + “It's all right.” + </p> + <p> + “I am apprehensive. This is the first night I have not accompanied you + upon your round. Colossal responsibility lies upon you. Should thieves + break through and steal, upon your head devolves the crime.” + </p> + <p> + Wearily Mr. Fletcher repeated: “It's all right.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit frowned: “You do not inspire confidence. Sleep films your + eye. I shudder for you. Women and children are in your care this night. + The maids, Mrs. Armitage, Mrs. Major, my daughter, the young life of + Frederick, are in your hands. What if rapine and murder, concealed in the + garden, are loosed beneath my roof this night?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Fletcher passed a fist across his brow; spoke wearily: “It's all + right, Mr. Marrapit. I can't say more; I can't do more. I tell you again + it's all right.” + </p> + <p> + “Substantiate. Adduce evidence.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Fletcher raised an appealing hand: “How can I prove it? My word's a + good word, ain't it? I tell you the doors are locked. I can't bring 'em up + to show you, can I? I'm a gardener, I am.” + </p> + <p> + “By zeal give proof. Set your alarum-clock so that twice in the night you + may be roused. Gird then yourself and patrol. But lightly slumber. Should + my bell sound in your room spring instantly to my bedside. To your couch.” + </p> + <p> + Battling speech, Mr. Fletcher moved to the door. At the threshold protest + overcame him. He gave it vent: “I should like to ast if I was engaged to + work by night as well as day? Can't I even have me rest? 'Ow many nights + am I to patrol the house? It's 'ard—damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; + not a watchdog.” + </p> + <p> + “Away, insolence.” + </p> + <p> + Insolence, upon the stairs, morosely descending, drew aside to give room + to Margaret and George. + </p> + <p> + Margaret parted her lips at him in her appealing smile. “Oh, Mr. + Fletcher,” in her pretty way she said, “you locked me out. Indeed you + did.” She smiled again; tripped towards Mr. Marrapit's door. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Fletcher stayed George, following. “Mr. George, did you shut up secure + behind Miss Margaret?” + </p> + <p> + George reassured him; questioned his earnestness. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Fletcher pointed through a window that gave upon the garden. “I've the + 'orrors on me to-night,” he said. “According to Master there's rapine + lurking in them bushes. Mr. George, what'll I do if there's rapine beneath + this roof to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “Catch it firmly by the back of the neck and hold its head in a bucket of + water,” George told him. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Fletcher passed, pondering the suggestion. “Only something to do with + rats after all,” he cogitated with wan smile of relief. + </p> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <p> + Margaret, at her father's bedside, luxuriously mouthed the fine phrases of + the Book of Job which nightly she read him. Her chapter finished, she + inquired: “Shall I read on?” + </p> + <p> + “Does Job continue?” + </p> + <p> + “No, father. The next begins, 'Then answered Bildad, the Shuite.'” + </p> + <p> + George coughed upon the threshold. + </p> + <p> + “Terminate,” said Mr. Marrapit. “Bildad is without.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, father, George is not!” + </p> + <p> + “He torments me. He is Bildad. Terminate. To your bed.” + </p> + <p> + She pressed a warm kiss upon Job's brow; took on her soft cheek the salute + of his thin lips. “You have everything, dear father?” + </p> + <p> + “Prone on my couch I lack much. I am content. You are a good girl, + Margaret.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, father!” She tripped from the room in a warmth of satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + The rough head of Bildad the Shuite came round the door; spoke “Good + night.” + </p> + <p> + “Approach,” said Job. Bildad's legs came over the mat. “You seek your + room? But not your couch?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to bed, if that's what you mean,” George told him. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit groaned. “Spurn it. Shun sloth. In the midnight oil set the + wick of knowledge. Burn it, trim it, tend it.” + </p> + <p> + George withdrew to his room; set the midnight pipe in his mouth; leaning + from his window sped his thoughts to Battersea. + </p> + <h3> + V. + </h3> + <p> + One member of the house remained to be sent to sleep. Mrs. Major put a + soft knuckle to the door; came at the call; whispered “I thought I might + disturb you.” + </p> + <p> + “You never disturb me, Mrs. Major.” + </p> + <p> + A little squeak sprung from the nutter in the masterly woman's heart. + </p> + <p> + “You sigh, Mrs. Major?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mr. Marrapit, I can't bear to see you lying there. The”—she + paused against an effort, then took the aspirate in a masterly rush—“the + house is not the same without you.” + </p> + <p> + “Your sympathy is very consoling to me, Mrs. Major.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mr. Marrapit!” She plunged a shaft that should try him: “I wish I had + the right to give you more.” + </p> + <p> + “Your position in this house gives you free access to me, Mrs. Major. + Regard your place as one of my own circle. Do not let deference stifle + intercourse.” + </p> + <p> + The masterly woman hove a superb sigh. “If you knew how I feel your + kindness, Mr. Marrapit. Truly, as I say to myself every night, fair is my + lot and goodly is my—” Icy dismay took her. Was the missing word + “hermitage” or “heritage”? With masterly decision she filled the blank + with a telling choke; keyed her voice to a brilliant suggestion of + brightness struggling with tears: “The sweetling cats are safely sleeping. + I have come straight from them. Ah, how they miss you! How well they know + you suffer!” + </p> + <p> + “They do?” A tremble of pleasure was in Mr. Marrapit's voice. + </p> + <p> + “They does—do.” Mrs. Major recited their day, gave their menu. “I + must not tarry,” she concluded; “you need rest. Good night, Mr. Marrapit. + Good night.” + </p> + <p> + “Good night, Mrs. Major.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit put out his candle. + </p> + <h3> + VI. + </h3> + <p> + And now in every room, save one, Sleep drew her velvet fingers down + recumbent forms; pressed eyelids with her languorous kiss; upon her warm + breast pillowed willing heads; about her bedfellows drew her Circe arms. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major's room was that single exception, and it is that masterly + woman's apartment we now shall penetrate. + </p> + <p> + Hurrying to semi-toilet; again assuring herself that the key was turned; + peering a last time for lurking ravishers beneath the bed, Mrs. Major then + fumbled with keys before her box—threw up the lid. + </p> + <p> + Down through a pile of garments plunged her arm. Her searching fingers + closed about her quest and a very beautiful smile softened her face—a + smile of quiet confidence and of trust. + </p> + <p> + In greater degree than men, women have this power of taking strength from + the mere contact of an inanimate object. A girl will smile all through her + sleep because, hand beneath pillow, her fingers are about a photograph or + letter; no need, as with Mrs. Major there was no need, even to see the + thing that thus inspires. The pretty hand will delve to recesses of a + drawer, and the thrill that brings the smile will run up from, it may be, + a Bible, a diary, or a packet of letters touched. Dependent since Eden, + woman is more emotionally responsive to aught that gives aid than is man; + for man is accustomed to battle for his prizes, not to receive them. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major drew up, that smile still upon her face, and the moon through + uncurtained window gave light upon the little joy she fetched from the + depths of her trunk. + </p> + <p> + “Old Tom Gin.” + </p> + <p> + The neck of Old Tom's bottle clinked against a glass; Old Tom gurgled + generously; passed away through the steady smile he had inspired. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major set a carafe of water upon a little table; partnered it with + Old Tom; reclined beside the pair on a comfortable seat; closed her eyes. + </p> + <p> + At intervals, as the hand crept between eleven and twelve of the clock, + she would open them; when she did so diluted Old Tom in the glass fell + lower, full-bodied Old Tom in the bottle marched steadily behind. + </p> + <p> + The further Old Tom crept downwards from the neck of his captivity, with + the greater circumspection did Mrs. Major open her eyes. Considerable + practice had told this masterly woman that Old Tom must be commanded with + a steady will: else he took liberties. Eyes suddenly opened annoyed Old + Tom, and he would set the furniture ambulating round the room in a manner + at once indecorous in stable objects and calculated to bewilder the + observer. Therefore, upon setting down her glass, this purposeful woman + would squarely fix the bureau that stood opposite her, would for a moment + keep her gaze upon it with a sternness that forbade movement, then gently + would close her eyes. When Old Tom must be again interviewed she would + lift the merest corner of an eyelid; catch through it the merest fraction + of the bureau; determine from the behaviour of this portion the stability + of the whole. + </p> + <p> + Thus if the corner she sighted showed indecorous propensities—as, + swelling and receding, fluttering in some ghostly breeze, or altogether + disappearing from view,—she would drop her lid and wait till she + might catch it more seemly. This effected, she would work from that fixed + point, inch by inch, until the whole bureau was revealed—swaying a + little, perhaps, but presently quiescent. + </p> + <p> + When, and not until, it was firmly anchored she would slowly start her eye + in review around the other objects of her apartment. If the wash-stand had + tendency to polka with the bed, or the wardrobe unnaturally to stretch up + its head through the ceiling, Mrs. Major would march her gaze steadily + back to the bureau, there to take fresh strength and start again. When all + was orderly—then Old Tom. + </p> + <p> + Masterly in all things, this woman was most masterly in her cups. + </p> + <h3> + VII. + </h3> + <p> + Into Mr. Marrapit's dreams there came a whistle. + </p> + <p> + He pushed at Sleep; she crooned to him and he snuggled against her. + </p> + <p> + Upon his brain there rapped a harsh <i>Wow</i>! + </p> + <p> + He wriggled from his bedfellow; she put an arm about him, drew him to her. + </p> + <p> + Now there succeeded a steady wash of sound—rising, falling, + murmuring persistent against his senses. + </p> + <p> + He turned his back upon Sleep. She crooned; he wriggled from her. + Seductively she followed; he kicked a leg and jarred her, threw an arm and + hurt her. Disgusted, she slipped from bed and left him, leaving a chilly + space where she had warmly lain. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit shivered; felt for Sleep; found her gone; with a start sat + upright. + </p> + <p> + The breakwater gone, that wash of sound which had lapped around his senses + rushed in upon them. Lingering traces of the touch of Sleep still offered + resistance—a droning hum. The wash surged over, poured about him—<i>VOICES</i>! + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit violently cleared his throat. The voices continued. Violently + again. They still continued. Tremendously a third time. They yet + continued. From this he argued that they could not be very close to his + door. Intently he listened, then located them—they came from the + garden. He felt for the bell-push that carried to Mr. Fletcher's room; put + his thumb upon it; steadily pressed. + </p> + <p> + Sleep toyed no tricks in Mr. Fletcher's bed. Like some wanton mistress + discovered in the very act of betrayal, she at the first tearing clamour + of the electric bell bounded from the sheets, scuttled from the room. + </p> + <p> + “Rapine!” cried Mr. Fletcher; plunged his head beneath the bedclothes and + wrestled in prayer. + </p> + <p> + The strident gong faltered not nor failed. Steady and penetrating it + dinned its hideous call. Mr. Fletcher waited for screams. None came. He + pushed the sheet between his chattering teeth, listened for cudgelling and + heavy falls. None came. That bell had single possession of the night. The + possibility that only patrolling was required of him nerved him to draw + from his concealment. He lit a candle; into trousers pushed his quivering + legs; upon tottering limbs passed up the stairs to Mr. Marrapit's room. + </p> + <p> + “Judas!” Mr. Marrapit greeted him. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Fletcher sighed relief: “I thought it was rapine.” + </p> + <p> + “You have betrayed your trust. You are Iscariot.” + </p> + <p> + “I come when you rung.” + </p> + <p> + “Silence. I have heard voices.” + </p> + <p> + “God help us,” Mr. Fletcher piously groaned; the candle in his shaking + hand showered wax. + </p> + <p> + “Blasphemer! He will not help the craven. Gird yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll call Mr. George.” + </p> + <p> + “Refrain. I will attend to that. Gird yourself. Take the musket from the + hall. It is loaded. Patrol!” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want the musket.” + </p> + <p> + “Be not overbold. Outside you may be at their mercy.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Outside!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Assuredly.” + </p> + <p> + “Me patrol outside!” + </p> + <p> + “That is your task. Forward!” + </p> + <p> + By now Mr. Marrapit had risen; swathed himself in a dressing-gown. Sternly + he addressed Mr. Fletcher: “As you this night quit yourself so will I + consider the question of your dismissal. If blood is spilt this night it + will be upon your head.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Fletcher trembled. “That's just it. It's 'ard—damn 'ard—” + </p> + <p> + “Forward, Iscariot.” Mr. Marrapit drove Judas before him; in the hall took + down the gun and pressed it into the shaking hands. He drew the bolts, + impelled Iscariot outward, and essayed to close the door. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Fletcher clutched the handle. Mr. Marrapit pushed; hissed through the + crack: “Away! Search every nook. Penetrate each fastness. Use stealth. + Track, trace, follow!” + </p> + <p> + Discarding entreaty, Mr. Fletcher put hoarse protest through the slit of + aperture that remained: “I should like to ast if I was engaged for this, + Mr. Marrapit,” he panted. “I'm a gardener, I am—” + </p> + <p> + “I recognise that. To your department. With your life forefend it.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit fetched the door against the lintel; in the brief moment he + could hold it close slid the lock. + </p> + <h3> + VIII. + </h3> + <p> + No tremor of fear or of excitement ruffled this remarkable man. Calm in + the breezes of life he was calm also in its tempests. This is a natural + corollary. As a man faces the smaller matters of his life so he will face + its crises. Each smallest act accomplished imprints its stamp upon the + pliable mass we call character; our manner of handling each tiniest + common-place of our routine helps mould its form; each fleeting thought + helps shape the mould. + </p> + <p> + The process is involuntary and we are not aware of its working. Character + is not made by tremendous thumps, but by the constant patterings of + minutest touches. The athlete does not build his strength by enormous + exertions, but by consistent and gentle training. Huge strains at + spasmodic intervals, separated by periods in which he lies fallow in + sloth, add nothing to his capacity for endurance; it is by the tally of + each minute of his preparation that you may read how he will acquit + himself against the test. Thus also with the shaping of character, and + thus was Mr. Marrapit, collected in minor affairs, mighty in this crisis. + </p> + <h3> + IX. + </h3> + <p> + Turning from the door he marched steadily across the hall towards the + stairs to arouse George. + </p> + <p> + At the lowermost step a movement on the landing above made him pause. He + was to be spared the trouble. Placing the candle upon a table he looked + up. He spoke. “George!” + </p> + <p> + “Wash it?” said a voice. “Wash it?” + </p> + <p> + “Wash nothing,” Mr. Marrapit commanded. “Who is this?” + </p> + <p> + The answer, starting low, ascended a shrill scale: “Wash it? Wash it? Wash + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Silence!” Mr. Marrapit answered. “Descend!” + </p> + <p> + He craned upwards. The curl-papered head of Mrs. Major poked at him over + the banisters. + </p> + <p> + “Darling,” breathed Mrs. Major. “Darling—<i>um!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Major! What is this?” + </p> + <p> + “Thash what <i>I</i> want to know,” said Mrs. Major coquettishly. “Wash + it? Wash <i>ish</i> it?” + </p> + <p> + “You are distraught, Mrs. Major. Have no fear. To your room.” + </p> + <p> + The curl-papered head waggled. Mrs. Major beamed. “Darling. Darling—um!” + </p> + <p> + “Exercise control,” Mr. Marrapit told her. “Banish apprehension. There are + thieves; but we are alert.” + </p> + <p> + The head withdrew. Mrs. Major gave a tiny scream: “Thieves!” She took a + brisk little run down the short flight which gave from where she stood; + flattened against the wall that checked her impulse; pressed carefully + away from it; stood at the head of the stairs facing Mr. Marrapit. + </p> + <p> + He gazed up. “I fear you have been walking in your sleep, Mrs. Major.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major did not reply. She pointed a slippered toe at the stair below + her; swayed on one leg; dropped to the toe; steadied; beamed at Mr. + Marrapit; and in a high treble coquettishly announced, “<i>One</i>!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit frowned: “Retire, Mrs. Major.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major plumped another step, beamed again: “<i>Two</i>!” + </p> + <p> + “You dream. Retire.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major daintily lifted her skirt; poised again. The projected slipper + swayed a dangerous circle. Mrs. Major alarmingly rocked. That infamous Old + Tom presented three sets of banisters for her support; she clutched at + one; it failed her; “Three four five six seven eight nine ten—<i>darling</i>!” + she cried; at breakneck speed plunged downwards, and with the “<i>Darling</i>!” + flung her arms about Mr. Marrapit's neck. + </p> + <p> + Back before the shock, staggering beneath the weight, Mr. Marrapit went + with digging heels. They could not match the pace of that swift blow upon + his chest. Its backward speed outstripped them. With shattering thud he + plumped heavily to his full length upon the floor; Mrs. Major pressed him + to earth. + </p> + <p> + But that shock was a whack on the head for Old Tom that temporarily + quieted him. “What has happened?” Mrs. Major asked, clinging tightly. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit gasped: “Release my neck. Remove your arms.” + </p> + <p> + “Where are we?” + </p> + <p> + “You are upon my chest. I am prone beneath you. Release!” + </p> + <p> + “It's all dark,” Mrs. Major cried; gripped firmer. + </p> + <p> + “It is not dark. I implore movement. Our juxtaposition unnaturally + compromises us. It is abhorrent.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major opened the eyes she had tightly closed during that staggering + journey and that shattering fall. She loosed her clutch; got to her knees; + thence tottered to a chair. That infamous Old Tom raised his head again; + tickled her brain with misty fingers. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit painfully rose. He put a sympathetic hand upon the seat of + his injury; with the other took up the candle. He regarded Mrs. Major; + suspiciously sniffed the air, pregnant with strange fumes; again regarded + his late burden. + </p> + <p> + Upon her face that infamous Old Tom set a beaming smile, + </p> + <p> + “Follow me, Mrs. Major,” Mr. Marrapit commanded; turned for the + dining-room; from its interior faced about upon her. + </p> + <p> + With rare dignity the masterly woman slowly arose; martially she poised + against the hat-rack; with stately mien marched steadily towards him. + </p> + <p> + Temporarily she had the grip of Old Tom—was well aware, at least, of + his designs upon her purity, and superbly she combated him. + </p> + <p> + With proud and queenly air she drew on—Mr. Marrapit felt that the + swift suspicion which had taken him had misjudged her. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major reached the mat. Old Tom gave a playful little twitch of her + legs, and she jostled the doorpost. + </p> + <p> + With old-world courtesy she bowed apology to the post. “Beg pardon,” she + graciously murmured; stood swaying. + </p> + <h3> + X. + </h3> + <p> + Step by step with her as she had crossed the hall, Mr. Fletcher, + recovering from the coward fear in which he shivered outside the door, had + crept forward along the path around the house. As Mrs. Major stood swaying + upon the threshold of the dining-room he reached the angle; peered round + it; in horror sighted Bill's figure pendant from Margaret's window. + </p> + <p> + Thrice the bell-mouth of his gun described a shivering circle; tightly he + squeezed his eyelids—pressed the trigger. + </p> + <h3> + BANG! + </h3> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit bounded six inches—hardly reached the earth again when, + with a startled scream, Mrs. Major was upon him, again her arms about his + neck. + </p> + <p> + And now shriek pursued shriek, tearing upwards through her throat. Old Tom + had loosed the ends of all her nerves. Like bolting rabbit in young corn + the tearing discharge of that gun went madly through them, and lacerated + she gave tongue. + </p> + <p> + Stifled by the bony shoulder that pressed against his face, Mr. Marrapit + went black. He jerked his head free, put up his face, and giving cry for + cry, shrilled, “George! George! George!” + </p> + <p> + The din reached George where from his window he leaned, crying on Abiram + in the man-hunt across the garden. He drew in his head, bounded down the + stairs. Over Mrs. Major's back, bent inwards from the toes to the rock + about which she clung, Mr. Marrapit's empurpled face stared at him. + </p> + <p> + Upon George's countenance the sight struck a great grin; his legs it + struck to dead halt. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major's shrieks died to moans. + </p> + <p> + “Action!” Mr. Marrapit gasped. “Remove this creature!” + </p> + <p> + George put a hand upon her back. It shot a fresh shriek from her; she + clung closer. + </p> + <p> + “Pantaloon!” Mr. Marrapit strained. “Crush that grin! Action! Remove this + woman! She throttles me! The pressure is insupportable. I am Sinbad.” + </p> + <p> + George again laid hands. Again Mrs. Major shrieked; tighter clung. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit, blacker, cried, “Zany!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what the devil can I do?” George asked, hopping about the pair; + Mrs. Major's back as responsive to his touch as the keys of a piano to + idle fingers. + </p> + <p> + “You run to and fro and grin like a dog,” Mr. Marrapit told him. “Each + time you touch her she screams, grips me closer. I shall be throttled. Use + discretion. Add to mine your assurance of her safety. She is not herself.” + </p> + <p> + George chuckled. “She's not. She's tight as a drum.” + </p> + <p> + “Liar!” moaned Mrs. Major. + </p> + <p> + “Intoxicated?” Mr. Marrapit asked. + </p> + <p> + “Blind.” + </p> + <p> + Sharp words will move where entreaty cannot stir. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major relaxed her hold; spun round. “Monster” and “Perjurer” rushed + headlong to her lips. “Ponsger!” she cried; tottered back against the + sofa; was struck by it at the bend of her knees; collapsed upon it. Her + head sunk sideways; she closed her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You can see for yourself,” George said. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit sniffed: “My nose corroborates.” + </p> + <p> + “Ponsger!” the prone figure wailed. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit started: “Mrs. Major!” + </p> + <p> + She opened her eyes: “Call me Lucy. Darling-<i>um!</i>” She began to + snore. + </p> + <p> + “Abhorrent!” Mr. Marrapit pronounced. + </p> + <p> + Whisperings without made him step to the door. White figures were upon the + stairs. “To your beds!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, whatever is it, sir?” Mrs. Armitage panted. + </p> + <p> + “Away! You outrage decency.” Mr. Marrapit set a foot upon the stairs. The + affrighted figures fled before him. + </p> + <p> + George, when his uncle returned, was peering through the blind. “Who the + devil loosed off that gun? It is immaterial. All events are buried beneath + this abhorrent incident. The roof of my peace has crashed about me.” Mr. + Marrapit regarded the prone figure. “Her inspirations grate upon me; her + exhalations poison the air. Rouse her. Thrust her to her room.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll never wake her now till she's slept it off.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us then essay to carry her. She cannot remain here. My shame shall + not be revealed, nor hers uncovered.” + </p> + <p> + George began: “To-morrow—” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow I speed her from my gates. My beloved cats have been in the + care of this swinish form. They have been in jeopardy. I tremble at their + escape. To-morrow she departs.” + </p> + <p> + A sudden tremendous idea swept over George, engulfing speech. + </p> + <p> + With no word he moved to the sofa; grasped the prone figure; put it upon + its weak legs. They gave beneath it. “You must take her feet,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Averting his gaze, Mr. Marrapit took the legs that Old Tom had + devitalised. The procession moved out; staggered up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + Heavy was the burden; bursting with vulgar laughter was George; but that + huge idea that suddenly had come to him swelled his muscles, lent him + strength. + </p> + <p> + He heaved the form upon the bed. + </p> + <p> + On the dressing-table a candle burned. By its light Mr. Marrapit + discovered Old Tom's bottle, two fingers of the villain yet remaining. + </p> + <p> + He beat his breast. “Extinguish that light. I to my room. Seek Fletcher. + He patrols the garden for malefactors. In the morning I will see you. + Before this disaster my chill is sped. You are of my flesh. Cleave unto + me. In our bosoms let this abhorrent sore be buried. Seek Fletcher.” + </p> + <p> + The distraught man tottered to his room. + </p> + <h3> + XI. + </h3> + <p> + George went slowly down the stairs, bathing in the delicious thrills of + unfolding the wrappings from about his great idea. He had yet had time but + to feel its shape and hug it as a child will feel and hug a doll packed in + paper. Now he stripped the coverings, and his pulses thumped as he saw how + fine was it. Almost unconscious to his actions he unbarred the door; + stepped into the thin light; was not aroused until, treading upon Mr. + Fletcher's musket, his idea was suddenly jolted from him. + </p> + <p> + Here the gun that gave the echoes; where the hand that started it? + </p> + <p> + A hoarse cry came to him: “Mr. George! Mr. George!” + </p> + <p> + He looked along the sound. Above a hedge below the lawn an apple-tree + raised its branches. Within them he could espy a dark mass that as he + approached took form. Mr. Fletcher. + </p> + <p> + The grass hushed George's footsteps. Rounding the hedge he came upon the + little drama that gave that note of dread to Mr. Fletcher's calls. + </p> + <p> + Beneath the gardener's armpits one branch of the apple-tree passed; behind + his knees another. Between them hung his heavy seat. Whitely a square of + it peered downwards; melancholy upon the sward lay the lid of corduroy + that should have warmed the space. For ten paces outwards from the + tree-trunk there stretched a pitted path. Abiram, as George came, turned + at this path's extremity; set his sloe eye upon the dull white patch in + Mr. Fletcher's stern; hurled forward up the track; sprang and snapped jaws + an inch below the mark as Mr. Fletcher mightily heaved. + </p> + <p> + A lesser dog would have yapped bafflement, fruitlessly scratched upwards + from hind legs. Abiram was perfect dog of the one breed of dog that is in + all things perfect. Silently he plodded back; turned; ran; leapt again. + Again Mr. Fletcher heaved, and again the fine jaws snapped an inch beneath + the pallid square of flesh. + </p> + <p> + As once more uncomplaining he turned, Abiram sighted George; ruffled. + George spoke his name. Abiram wagged that short tail that marked his + Champion Victor Wild blood, shook the skull that spoke to the same mighty + strain. + </p> + <p> + This dog expected in his human friends that same devotion to duty which is + the governing trait of his breed. His shake implied, “No time for social + niceties, sir. I have a job in hand.” + </p> + <p> + “Call 'im off, Mr. George,” Mr. Fletcher implored. “Call 'im—<i>ur!</i>”—he + heaved upward as Abiram again sprang—“off,” he concluded, sinking + once more as the bull-terrier trotted up the little path. + </p> + <p> + It was a fascinating scene. “You're quite safe,” George told him. + </p> + <p> + “Safe! I'm <i>tired!</i> I can't keep on risin' and fallin' all night. + It's 'ard—damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; not a—<i>ur!</i>” + He heaved again. + </p> + <p> + George told him: “You do it awfully well, though; so neat.” + </p> + <p> + “Call 'im off,” Mr. Fletcher moaned. “He'll have me in a minute. He's 'ad + a bit off of me calf; he's 'ad a piece out of me trousers. He'll go on. + He's a methodical dog—<i>ur!</i>” + </p> + <p> + George took a step; caught Abiram's collar. “How on earth did you get up + there?” + </p> + <p> + “Jumped.” + </p> + <p> + “Jumped! You couldn't jump up there!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Fletcher took a look to see that Abiram was securely held; then + started to wriggle to a pose of greater comfort. “I'd jump a house with + that 'orror after me,” he said bitterly. By intricate squirmings he laid a + hand upon the cold patch of flesh that gazed starkly downwards from his + stern. “If I ain't got hydrophobia I've got frost-bite,” he moaned. “Cruel + draught I've had through this 'ole. Take 'im off, Mr. George.” + </p> + <p> + George was scarcely listening. His thoughts had returned to the delicious + task of fingering his great idea. + </p> + <p> + “Take 'im off, Mr. George,” Mr. Fletcher implored. + </p> + <p> + George passed a handkerchief under Abiram's collar; tugged for the gate; + there dispatched the dog down the road. + </p> + <p> + Abiram shook his head; trotted with dejected stern. A job had been left + unfinished. + </p> + <h3> + XII. + </h3> + <p> + Hallooing safety to the apple-tree, too preoccupied to inquire further + into the reason for the gun and the presence of Bill's dog, George turned + for the house. + </p> + <p> + Awakening birds carolled his presence. They hymned the adventures of the + day that Dawn, her handmaiden, came speeding, silver-footed, + perfume-bearing, fresh from her dewy bath, to herald. + </p> + <p> + George put up an answering pipe. For him also the day was adventure-packed + and must lustily be hymned. Entering Mr. Marrapit's study he drew the + blinds; upon a telegraph form set Mary's name and her address; pondered; + then to these words compressed his great idea: + </p> + <p> + “<i>Go agency this morning. Get name on books. Meet you there. Think can + get you situation here. George.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Immediately the office opens,” said George; trod up to his room. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <h3> + Mr. Marrapit Takes A Nice Warm Bath. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + As Mr. Marrapit had said, the disaster of the night had sped his + complaint. + </p> + <p> + He appeared at breakfast. No word was spoken. He ate nothing. + </p> + <p> + Once only gave he sign of interest. Midway through the meal muffled sounds + came to the breakfast party. Scufflings in the hall struck an attentive + light in Mr. Marrapit's eyes; slam of the front door jerked him in his + seat; wheels, hoofs along the drive drew his gaze to the window. A cab + rolled past—a melancholy horse; a stout driver, legs set over a + corded box; a black figure, bolt upright, handkerchief to eyes. + </p> + <p> + The vision passed. Mr. Marrapit gazed upwards; his thin lips moved. + </p> + <p> + Vulgar curiosity shall not tempt us to pry into the demeanour with which, + an hour earlier, this man had borne himself in the study with Mrs. Major. + Of that unhappy woman's moans, of her explanations, of the tears that + poured from her eyes—bloodshot in a head most devilishly racked by + Old Tom—we shall not speak. + </p> + <p> + Margaret stretched her hand for more bread. Despite the moving scenes in + which during the night she had travelled with her Bill, her appetite was + nothing affected. With her meals her sentimentality was upon the + friendliest terms. This girl was most gnawed by hunger when by emotion she + was most torn. + </p> + <p> + She stretched for a third slice. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit cleared his throat. The sound shot her. She caught his eye + and the glance pierced her. Her outstretched hand dropped upon the cloth, + toyed with crumbs. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit said: “I perceive you are finished?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret murmured: “Yes.” Her voice had a tremulous note. It is a bitter + thing to lose a slice of bread-and-butter for which the whole system + imperatively calls. + </p> + <p> + “Withdraw,” Mr. Marrapit commanded. + </p> + <p> + She put a lingering glance upon the loaf; wanly glided from the room. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + As she closed the door George prepared for his great idea. He drank deeply + of a cup of tea; drew down his cuffs; pondered them. They were covered in + pencilled notes, evolved by desperate work all that morning, to aid him + when the hour was at hand. + </p> + <p> + He absorbed Note I; spoke: “I am afraid last night's events very much + distressed you, sir—” + </p> + <p> + “They are interred. Do not resurrect them.” + </p> + <p> + George hurried to Note 2. “My sympathies with you—” + </p> + <p> + “Let the dead bury the dead. Mourn not the past.” + </p> + <p> + George skipped to Note 3. “What I am concerned about is the cats.” + </p> + <p> + “You are?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sir, indeed I am. I am not demonstrative. Perhaps you have not + guessed my fondness for the cats?” + </p> + <p> + “I have not.” + </p> + <p> + “Believe me, it is a deep affection. When I saw that unhappy woman tigh—under + the influence of spirits, what was my first thought?” + </p> + <p> + “Supply the answer.” + </p> + <p> + George took another glimpse at Note 3. “What was my first thought?” he + repeated. “Was it distress at sight of a woman so forgetful of her + modesty? No. Was it sympathy for the cruel deception that had been + practised upon you? Forgive me, sir, it was not.” (He glanced at his + notes.) “What, then?” + </p> + <p> + He paused brightly. + </p> + <p> + “It is your conundrum,” said Mr. Marrapit. “Solve it.” + </p> + <p> + George raised an impressive hand. “What, then? It was the thought of the + risks that the cats I so loved had run whilst beneath the care of this + woman.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit's groan inspirited George. He was on the right track. He took + Note 4. “I asked myself, Who is responsible for the jeopardy in which + these creatures have been placed? Heaven knows, I said, what they may not + have suffered. This woman may have neglected their food, she may have + neglected their comforts. In a drunken fit she might have poisoned them, + beat them, set furious dogs upon them.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit writhed in anguish. + </p> + <p> + George acted as Note 4 bade him. He dropped his voice. “Let us trust, + sir,” he said, “that none of these things has taken place.” + </p> + <p> + “Amen,” Mr. Marrapit murmured. “Amen.” + </p> + <p> + George's voice took a sterner note. “But, I asked myself, Who is + responsible for those horrors that might have been, that may have been?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit dropped his head upon his hands. He murmured: “I am. + Peccavi.” + </p> + <p> + George rose in noble calm. He read Note 5; gave it with masterly effect: + “No, sir. I am.” + </p> + <p> + “You!” + </p> + <p> + “I! I have not slept since I leftyou, sir. I have paced my room and” (he + read a masterly note) “remorse has paced with me, step by step, hour by + hour. Did I help my uncle, I asked myself, when he was selecting this Mrs. + Major? No. Was I by his right hand to counsel and advise him? No. Has not + my training at hospital, my intercourse with ten thousand patients, taught + me to read faces like an open book? It has. Should not I then have been by + his side to help him when he selected a woman for the post of caring for + our-forgive me, sir, I said 'our'—caring for our cats? I should. I + asked myself how I could make amends. Only by begging my uncle's + forgiveness for my indifference and by imploring him to let me help him in + the choice of the next woman he selects.” + </p> + <p> + A masterly pause he followed with an appeal sent forth in tones of rare + beauty: “Oh, sir, I do beg your forgiveness; I do implore you let me make + amends by helping you in your next choice.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit wiped moist eyes. “I had not suspected in you this profundity + of feeling.” + </p> + <p> + George said brokenly: “I have given you no reason.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit replied on a grim tone: “Assuredly you have not.” + </p> + <p> + George glanced at Note 6; fled from the danger zone. + </p> + <p> + “Where I fear the mistake was made in Mrs. Major,” he hurried, “was that + she was not a perfect lady. Our—forgive me for saying 'our'—our + cats are refined cats, cats of gentle birth, of inherent delicacy. Their + attendant should be of like breeding. She should be refined, her birth + should be gentle, her feelings delicate. She should be a lady.” + </p> + <p> + “You are right,” Mr. Marrapit said. “As sea calleth to sea, as like + calleth to like, so would an ebb and flow of sympathy be set in motion + between my cats and an attendant delicately born. Is that your meaning?” + </p> + <p> + George murmured in admiration: “In beautiful words that is my meaning.” He + paused. Now the bolt was to be shot, and he nerved himself against the + strain. He fired: “I have a suggestion.” + </p> + <p> + “Propound.” + </p> + <p> + No further need for notes. George pushed back his cuffs; gulped the + agitation that swelled dry and suffocating in his mouth. “This is my + suggestion. Because I have had experience in the reading of faces; because + I wish to make recompense for my share in the catastrophe of Mrs. Major's + presence; because—” + </p> + <p> + “You are drowning beneath reasons. Cease bubbling. Strike to the surface.” + </p> + <p> + George had not been drowning. He had been creeping gingerly from + stepping-stone to stepping-stone. The endeavour had been to come as close + as possible to the big rock upon which he intended to spring. The less the + distance of the leap the more remote the chance of slipping down the rock + and being whirled off in swift water. It is a method of progression by + which, in the race of existence, many lives are lost. The timid will + hobble from stone to stone, landing at each forward point more and yet + more shaky in the knees. The torrent roars about them. Sick they grow and + giddy; stepping-stones are green and slimy; the effort of balancing cannot + be unduly prolonged. + </p> + <p> + Ere ever they feel themselves ready for the leap they slip, go whirling + and drowning downstream past the stepping-stones that are called Infirmity + of Purpose. Or they may creep close enough the rock, only to find they + have delayed over their hobbling progression until the rock is already so + crowded by others who have been bolder over the stones as to show no + foothold remaining. They leap and fall back. + </p> + <p> + We are all gifted with strength sufficient for that spring; but disaster + awaits him who scatters his energies in a hundred hesitating little + scrambles. + </p> + <p> + Now George sprang; poised upon that last “because.” + </p> + <p> + “And because—I wish—” He sprang—“Therefore I suggest + that I should go to town to-day and search every agency until I find you a + lady I think suitable.” + </p> + <p> + The thud of his landing knocked the breath out of him. In terror he lay + lest Mr. Marrapit's answering words should have the form of desperate + fellows who would hurl him from his hold, throw him back. + </p> + <p> + “I agree,” Mr. Marrapit said. + </p> + <p> + George was drawn to his feet. He could have whooped for joy. + </p> + <p> + “I agree. I have misjudged you. In this matter I lay my trust in you. Take + it, tend it, nurse it; cherish it so that it may not be returned to me + cold and dead. Speed forth.” + </p> + <p> + “Have I a free hand?” George asked. + </p> + <p> + “Emphatically no. Every effort must be made to keep down expenses. Here + are two shillings. Render account. As to salary—” + </p> + <p> + George burst out: “Oh, she'll come for anything.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit started. “She? Whom?” + </p> + <p> + George threw a blanket to hide the hideous blunder. “Told of such a home + as this is,” he explained, “a true lady would come for anything.” + </p> + <p> + The blunder sank, covered. “I earnestly pray that may be so,” Mr. Marrapit + said. “I doubt. Rapacity and greed stalk the land. Mrs. Major had + five-and-twenty pounds per annum. I will not go above that figure.” + </p> + <p> + George told him: “Rely upon me. But, by a free hand I meant a free hand as + to engaging what I may think a suitable person.” + </p> + <p> + “Emphatically no. You are the lower court. Sift sheep from goats. Send + sheep here to me. I am the tribunal. I will finally select.” + </p> + <p> + The refusal placed a last obstacle in the path of George's scheme, but he + did not demur. Primarily he dared not. To demur might raise again that + blunder he had let escape when he had said, “She'll come for anything”; + this time it might rage around and not be captured. All might be wrecked. + Secondly he felt there to be no great need for protest. The confidence of + having won thus far gave him courage against this final difficulty. + </p> + <p> + “Trust me, sir,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Very soberly he paced from the room; gently closed the door; with the + tread of one bearing a full heart heavily moved up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + He reached his room; ripped off sobriety. “Oh, Mary!” he exultantly cried, + “if I can get you down here, old girl!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit, meanwhile, stepped to the room where his cats lived; + lovingly toyed with his pets; took the Rose of Sharon a walk in the + garden. He was in pleasant mood. Great had been the distress of the night, + but this man had enjoyed a luxurious warm bath—in crocodile's tears. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> + <h3> + Miss Porter Swallows A Particularly Large Sweet. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + Mary in the little Battersea lodgings was at breakfast when her George's + telegram arrived. She puckered over its mystery; shaped events this way + and that, but could make of them no keyhole that the message would fit and + unlock. + </p> + <p> + She flew among the higher improbabilities: George, she conjectured, had + misrepresented this stony-hearted uncle; last night had told all to Mr. + Marrapit, and Mr. Marrapit had warmed to her and bade him fetch her to + Herons' Holt. She ripped George's description of his uncle from about the + old man; dressed Mr. Marrapit in snowy locks and a benign smile; pictured + him coming down the steps with outstretched hand to greet her. She heard + him say, “My daughter”; she saw him draw George to her, lock their hands; + she heard him murmur, “Bless you, my children.” + </p> + <p> + This was a romantic young woman. A poached egg was allowed to grow cold as + she trembled over her delectable fancies. + </p> + <p> + But a glance at the telegram pulled her from these delicious flights; + bumped her to earth. “<i>Think can get you situation here.</i>” + “Situation” drove the fatherly air from Mr. Marrapit; once more + rehabilitated him as her George presented him—grim and masterly. + </p> + <p> + Further conjecture altogether drove Mr. Marrapit from the picture. What + situation could be offered her in the Marrapit household? Why should + “here” mean Herons' Holt? It must mean at a house in the district. + </p> + <p> + Upon the magic carpet of this new thought my Mary was whirled again in an + imaged paradise. She would be near her George. + </p> + <p> + High in these clouds she ran to her bedroom for her hat; but with it there + descended upon her head a new thought that again sent her toppling + earthwards. Characterless, and worse than characterless, how was she to + get any such delightful post? My Mary started up the street for the + Agency, blinking tears. + </p> + <p> + At Battersea Bridge a new thought came sweeping. She clutched on to it; + held it fast. Into her tread it put a spring; to her chin gave a brave + tilt. If everything failed, if of the telegram nothing came, why, at least + she had the telegram!—was making for the Agency under a direct + command from her George. The thought swelled her with confidence and + comfort. How warm a thing it was to feel that she did not face the world + alone! Her George's arm was striking for her, her George's hand was + pointing a terse command. “Go to Agency.” She was obeying him; she + belonged to him. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + Mary had intended to wait outside the Agency until her George should + arrive and explain his mysterious message. But she was scarcely at the + building when Miss Ram, also arriving, accosted her—took her + upstairs. Miss Ram quite naturally regarded the meeting as evidence that + Mary had come for help. Mary, in a flutter as to George's intentions, + could but meekly follow. + </p> + <p> + In the room marked “Private,” settled at her table, Miss Ram icily opened + the interview. “I have heard from Mrs. Chater. I did not expect to see you + again.” + </p> + <p> + Mary began: “I don't know what you have heard—” + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram stretched for a letter. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't wish to,” Mary cried; put out a hand that stayed the action. + “To hear all she says would again begin it all. It would be like her + voice. It would be like being with her again. Please, please, Miss Ram, + don't tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “You have your own version?” + </p> + <p> + “I have the truth.” Mary pointed at the letter-file. “The truth isn't + there. Mrs. Chater isn't capable of the truth. She cannot even recognise + the truth when she hears it.” + </p> + <p> + In yet more freezing tones Miss Ram replied: “She is an old and valued + client.” + </p> + <p> + “You only know her in this office,” Mary told her. “You don't know her in + her home.” + </p> + <p> + “I have suited her with other young ladies. I have heard of her from + them.” + </p> + <p> + “And they have spoken well of her?” + </p> + <p> + “Discounting the prejudice of a late employee, they have spoken well.” + </p> + <p> + “Was her son there with them?” + </p> + <p> + “They have not told me so.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Mary; sat back in her chair. + </p> + <p> + “Then your version is about the son?” + </p> + <p> + Mary nodded. Recollection put a silly lump in her throat. + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram said: “Miss Humfray, when I received that letter from Mrs. + Chater, I said I would have no more to do with you. I told Miss Porter I + would not see you. Why, out of all my ladies, do you come back to me + characterless from your situations? I will listen to your story. Make it + very brief. Don't exaggerate. I have sat in this chair for seventeen + years. I can distinguish in a minute between facts and spleen. You desire + to tell your version?” + </p> + <p> + “I must,” Mary said. “What I'd like to do would be to get up and say, 'If + you doubt me, I'll not trouble to convince you.' I'd like to walk out and + leave you and face anything rather than 'explain.' Why should I 'explain' + to anybody? But I'm not going to walk out. I haven't the pluck. I know + what it is like to be alone out there.” She gave a little choke. “I've + learnt that much, anyway.” She went on. “I'll just tell you, that's all. I + don't want your sympathy; I only want your sense of justice.” + </p> + <p> + “I like your spirit,” Miss Ram said. It was a quality she rarely found in + her applicants. “Go on.” + </p> + <p> + Then Mary told. She phrased bluntly. Her recital was after the manner of + the fireworks called “Roman candles.” These, when lit, pour out fire and + smoke in a rather weak-kneed dribble. They must be held tightly. When + tensely enough constricted, of fire and smoke there is little, but at + intervals out there pops an exceedingly luminous ball of flame. + </p> + <p> + My Mary kept the pressure of pride upon her throat. There was no dribble + of emotion. Only the facts popped out—hard and dry, and to Miss Ram + intensely illuminative. Mary did not mention George's name. She concluded + her narrative with jerky facts relative to the scene in the Park. “Then I + ran away,” she said, “and a friend of mine came up. He had seen. And he + thrashed him. When I got back to Mrs. Chater's her son had arrived—battered. + He told his mother that he had seen me with a man and had interfered. That + the man assaulted him. That's all.” + </p> + <p> + “The miserable hound!” pronounced Miss Ram with extraordinary ferocity. + </p> + <p> + From a drawer in her desk she took a manuscript book, bound in limp + leather, tied with blue ribbon. Herein were contained the remarkable + thoughts which from time to time had come to this woman during her + seventeen years' occupancy of the chair in which she sat. Upon the flyleaf + was inscribed “Aphorisms: by Eugenie Ram.” It was her intent to publish + this darling work when beneath each letter of the alphabet twelve + aphorisms were written. + </p> + <p> + “The miserable hound!” cried she, when the full tale of Mr. Bob Chater's + vileness was told; drew “Aphorisms” towards her and wrote in hot blood. + </p> + <p> + Then looked at Mary. “<i>L,</i>” she read, “<i>L. Lust. Lust is the sound + meat of natural instinct gone to carrion. Men eat meat, wolves eat + carrion. Some men are wolf-men</i>—Hand me the dictionary, Miss + Humfray. Two r's in carrion. I <i>thought</i> so. Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + She replaced “Aphorisms.” “My dear, I will do what I can for you,” she + told Mary. “I <i>do</i> believe you. Go into the interview room. I hear a + step.” + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + That step was George's. Abashed in this home of women he shuffled uneasily + in the passage, then put a hesitating knuckle upon “Enquiries.” + </p> + <p> + From within a violent movement was followed by a strange guttural sound. + George entered. + </p> + <p> + With scarlet face and watery eyes, Miss Porter—the stout young woman + who presided over this department, and whose habit it was to suck sweets + the better to beguile the tedium of her duties—gazed at him; made + guttural sounds. The start of George's knock had caused this girl to + swallow a particularly large sweet, and its downward passage was + inflicting upon her considerable pain. + </p> + <p> + Her face was an alarming sight. “I'm afraid—” George began. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon!” gasped Miss Porter, driving the sweet with a tremendous swallow. + “Pardon!” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” George pleasantly said. “Not at all. I called with reference + to a lady-help.” + </p> + <p> + The grinding sweet forbade the pleasant dalliance + </p> + <p> + Miss Porter could have wished with this handsome young man. In a brave + spasm (this girl was in great suffering), “I will tell the Principal,” she + said; trod heavily to Miss Ram's door. + </p> + <p> + Fate is an abominable trickster; loves to tease us. With one hand it gave + Miss Porter a delectable male; with the other prevented her enjoying him. + Furthermore, it prematurely deprived her of a fine sweet. + </p> + <p> + Reappearing and holding the door ajar: “Miss Ram will see you,” she + murmured. Tears were in this girl's eyes; the bolted sweet was still + paining her very much indeed. + </p> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <p> + In two clever bows Miss Ram without a word greeted George; indicated a + chair. + </p> + <p> + George sat down. “I want,” he began—“that is, my uncle wants, a + lady-help—” + </p> + <p> + “Name, please,” rapped Miss Ram, opening the ledger. + </p> + <p> + George gave it; stretched a leg to indicate a confidence he did not feel; + pitched his voice to aid the presentment. “When I say lady-help—” + </p> + <p> + “Address, please,” said Miss Ram with a pistol-snap. + </p> + <p> + George withdrew the signs of confidence with a jerk. He gave the + information. Then waited Miss Ram to give him a lead. He had twice been + shot; was in no desire again to expose his person. + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram fixed her small black eyes upon him. She said nothing. The + intrusion of a young man into matters essentially domestic she strongly + disapproved. Under “D” in “Aphorisms” this woman had a trenchant note + touching this matter. “<i>D. Domesticity. Domesticity</i>,” said this + note, “<i>is the offspring of all the womanly virtues. The virtues + impregnate the woman, and domesticity is the resultant child. Absence of a + single womanly trait aborts or debilitates the offspring. Men have nothing + whatever to do with it, and nothing is more abominable than a man who + meddles with domestic matters.</i>” + </p> + <p> + The rays of Miss Ram's disconcerting eye pushed George steadily backwards + from the rock of such small confidence as remained to him. Assailed by the + inquiring bows with which she now interrogated his further purpose, he + slipped from it, plunged wildly into the sea of what he required, and for + five minutes beat this way and that, hurling the splash of broken + sentences at Miss Ram's unbending countenance. + </p> + <p> + Beginning a description of Mr. Marrapit's household, he floundered thence + to a description of the required lady's duties; abandoning that + unfinished, splashed to a description of the manner of person for whom he + sought. + </p> + <p> + It was his object to paint a character and appearance as near to his + Mary's as he could master; to induce Miss Ram to suggest her as likely + candidate for the post. He could not introduce his Mary to his uncle + unless she came under the auspices of some recognised institution. + </p> + <p> + So he floundered on. + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram did not move. His struggles grew less; he caught at haphazard + words; flung them desperately; at last relapsed; sat sweating. + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram poked him with a questioning bow. He did not stir. + </p> + <p> + With a further bow she accepted his defeat; handed him a pink paper. “Now, + kindly fill up this form. State precisely what you require. Write clearly, + please.” + </p> + <p> + George obeyed. Miss Ram studied the answers to her printed interrogations; + opened her ledger. “I have several suitable ladies.” She started to read a + list. “Miss Minna Gregor; aged 25; daughter of the late Humphrey Gregor, + stockbroker; three years' character from Mrs. Mountsaffron of Charles + Street, to whom she was lady-help and from whom an excellent reference may + be obtained.” + </p> + <p> + “Too old,” said George. + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram frowned; returned to the ledger. “Miss Ellen Hay; aged 20; + daughter of Lieutenant Hay, late R.N. For two years with Mrs. Hoyle-Hoyle + of Knightsbridge.” + </p> + <p> + George squeaked, “Too young.” He had not anticipated this ordeal. + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram read on. At the fifteenth name George was in desperate agitation. + His list of objections was exhausted. Each protest had narrowed his field. + </p> + <p> + “This is the last upon my books,” Miss Ram severely told him. “She fills + all your requirements. None of your objections applies. You will certainly + engage her.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel sure I shall,” George brightly said. If this was the last name it + must be Mary. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to hear that,” Miss Ram announced. “You are hard to please. + This is a most admirable young woman.” + </p> + <p> + George leaned forward with an expectant smile. Miss Ram read: “Miss Rosa + Brump—” + </p> + <p> + George's smile died. An “Eh?” was startled out of him. + </p> + <p> + “Brump,” said Miss Ram testily. “Brump. B-r-u-m-p, <i>Brump</i>.” + </p> + <p> + George said “Oh!”; ran a finger around the inside of his collar. + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram read on, emphasising the Brumps with the suggestion of a ball + bouncing from rock to rock: + </p> + <p> + “Miss Rosa <i>Brump</i>; aged 21; daughter of the late Selwyn Agburn <i>Brump</i>, + barrister-at-law. Companion to Miss Victoria Shuttle of Shuttle Hall, + Shuttle, Lines, until that lady's death. The late Miss Shuttle dying + suddenly, Miss <i>Brump</i> has no reference from her. What that reference + would have been, however, is clearly evidenced by the fact that in her + will Miss Shuttle bequeathed 'to my faithful companion Rosa <i>Brump</i>,' + her terra-cotta bust of the late Loomis Shuttle, Esq., J.P., inventor of + the Shuttle liquid manure.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram wagged a finger at George. “That speaks for itself,” she said. + </p> + <p> + George did not answer. He was in a confusion of fear. This terrible woman + would force Miss Brump upon him. He was powerless in her hands. He was in + chains. + </p> + <p> + “Does it not?” poked Miss Ram. + </p> + <p> + “Rather,” said George. “Oh, rather.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good. I congratulate your uncle upon obtaining this estimable young + woman. She should call here in a few minutes. You can then make final + arrangements. Meanwhile, this form—” + </p> + <p> + George hurled himself free from this hypnotic panic. Anything must be done + to shake off this intolerable Brump. + </p> + <p> + “One moment,” he said. “I had forgotten—” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “What colour is Miss Brump's hair?” + </p> + <p> + “Her <i>what?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Hair. Her hair.” + </p> + <p> + “How extraordinary! Brown.” + </p> + <p> + George effected an admirable start. He echoed: “<i>Brown?</i> Oh, not + brown?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. Brown.” + </p> + <p> + George mournfully shook his head. “Oh, dear! How unfortunate! I'm afraid + Miss Brump will not suit, Miss Ram. My uncle—extraordinary foible—has + a violent objection to brown hair. He will not have it in the house.” + </p> + <p> + “Unheard of!” Miss Ram snapped. “Unheard of!” + </p> + <p> + George rubbed together his sweating palms; blundered on. “None the less a + fact,” he said impressively. He dropped his voice. “It is a very sad + story. He had fifteen brothers—” + </p> + <p> + “Fifteen!” + </p> + <p> + “I assure you, yes. All were black-haired except one, who was brown—the + first brown-haired child in the history of the house. 'Bantam' they used + to call him when they were girls and boys together—'Bantam.'” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Girls</i>! You said brothers!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes. Girls as well. Twelve, twelve girls.” + </p> + <p> + “Twelve girls and fifteen boys!” + </p> + <p> + “I assure you, yes. A record. As I was saying, the brown-haired child, he + took to drink. It is most painful. Died in a madhouse. My uncle, head of + the family, reeled beneath the stigma—reeled. Vowed from that day + that he would never let a brown-haired person cross his threshold.” + </p> + <p> + George wiped his streaming face; sat back with a sigh. Miss Brump was + buried. + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram's next words caused him to start in his seat. + </p> + <p> + “But your hair is brown.” + </p> + <p> + My contemptible George, all his lies now rushing furious upon him, put his + hand to his head; withdrawing it, gazed at the palm with the air of one + looking for a stain. + </p> + <p> + “How about <i>that</i>?” rapped Miss Ram. + </p> + <p> + George gave a wan smile. “It is my misfortune,” he said simply—“my + little cross. We all have our burdens in this life, Miss Ram. Pardon me if + I do not care to dwell upon mine.” + </p> + <p> + With a bow Miss Ram indicated sympathy; decorously closed the subject. + </p> + <p> + George gave a little sigh. With a simulation of brightness he proceeded: + “You are sure you have no other lady?” + </p> + <p> + “I have one,” said Miss Ram. “She would not suit.” + </p> + <p> + “May I be allowed to judge?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram turned to the ledger. “'Miss Mary Humfray.'” + </p> + <p> + George started. “It is nothing,” he explained. “One of those shivers; that + is all.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram bowed. “'Miss Mary Humfray; aged 21; only child of the late + Colonel Humfray, Indian Army; references from former employer not good, + but with extenuating circumstances.'” + </p> + <p> + “I think she might suit,” George said. “She—she—” he groped + wildly—“she is the daughter of a colonel.” + </p> + <p> + “So were four others.” + </p> + <p> + George wiped his brow. “The—the <i>only</i> daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “You consider that a merit?” + </p> + <p> + “My uncle would. He has curious ideas. He is himself an only child.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram stared. George had the prescience of trouble, but could not find + it. “Oh, yes,” he said, “oh, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Fifteen brothers and twelve sis—” + </p> + <p> + George saw the gaping pit; sprang from it. “<i>Has</i> an only child,” he + corrected. “<i>Has</i>, not <i>is</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram glared, continued: “What of the absence of character?” + </p> + <p> + “I imagine the fact of being an only child would override that. You said + there were extenuating circumstances?” + </p> + <p> + “There are. I personally would speak for the young lady.” + </p> + <p> + Excitement put George upon his feet. “I thank you very much, Miss Ram. I + feel that this lady will suit.” + </p> + <p> + “You have asked nothing about her. With the others you were unusually + particular.” + </p> + <p> + “I act greatly by instinct. It is a family trait. Something seems to + assure me in this case.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram gazed searchingly at George; answered him upon an interested + note. “Indeed!” she spoke. “Remarkable. Pray pardon me.” She drew + “Aphorisms” from its drawer; hesitated a moment; with flowing pen wrote + beneath “I.” + </p> + <p> + She turned towards George. “Pray pardon me,” she repeated. “What you tell + me of acting by instinct greatly interests me as a student of character. + In this little volume here I—allow me.” She emphasised with a + quill-pen. “<i>I. Instinct. Instinct is the Almighty's rudder with which + He steers our frail barques upon the tempestuous sea of life at moments + when otherwise we should be quite at a loss. Some of us answer quickly to + this mysterious helm and for example something seems to tell them in the + middle of the night that the house is on fire, and they get up and find it + is. Let those who don't answer quickly beware!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “That's awfully well put,” said George. “Awfully well.” + </p> + <p> + For the first time Miss Ram smiled. “You would wish to interview the young + lady?” she asked. “Fortunately she is present. Kindly step to the + Interview Room.” + </p> + <p> + She led the way. With thundering pulses George followed. His Mary rose. + Miss Ram introduced them. + </p> + <p> + George rolled his tongue in a dry mouth; passed it over dry lips. He had + no words. + </p> + <p> + “Have you no questions?” Miss Ram asked severely. + </p> + <p> + For a third time since he had entered this building, panic broke damply + upon George's brow. He blew his nose; in a very faint voice asked: “Your + age is twenty-one?” + </p> + <p> + Upon an agitated squeak his Mary told him: “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” In desperation he paused: caught Miss Ram's awful eye; was goaded to + fresh plunge. “Ah, one-and-twenty?” + </p> + <p> + In a tiny squeak Mary replied: “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + He shuffled in desperation. “When will you be twenty-two?” + </p> + <p> + “In February.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! February.” This was awful. “February.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram's eye stabbed him again. + </p> + <p> + “February. Then you must be twenty-one now?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Tch-tch!</i>” sounded Miss Ram. + </p> + <p> + “Twenty-one,” George stammered. “Twenty-one—” + </p> + <p> + From the other room at that moment Miss Porter called. + </p> + <p> + “I am required,” said Miss Ram, “elsewhere. I will return in a moment.” + She passed out; closed the door. + </p> + <h3> + V. + </h3> + <p> + “My darling!” cried George. + </p> + <p> + “Georgie!” + </p> + <p> + They embraced. + </p> + <p> + He held her to him; kissed the soft gold hair. + </p> + <p> + On a movement in the next room his Mary wriggled free. “Tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “By Gad, it's been awful! Did you hear me in that room?” + </p> + <p> + She nodded, laughing at him. He kissed the smiles. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do be careful! Let <i>go</i>, George; let <i>go</i>. I couldn't hear + what you said. But you were hours—<i>hours</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Years,” said George. “Years. Aeons of time. I have aged considerably. I + thought it would never end. It was appalling.” + </p> + <p> + She clasped her pretty hands. “But tell me, George. Do tell me. I don't + understand <i>anything</i>. What has <i>happened?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Give me time,” George told her. “I am not the same George. The + light-hearted George of yore is dead under Miss Ram's chair. I am old and + seamed with care.” + </p> + <p> + “George, <i>do, do</i> tell me! Don't fool.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not fooling. I can't fool. You don't realise what I have been + through. You have no heart. I can't fool. When I was a child I thought as + a child; I did childish things. But now that I have been through Miss + Ram's hands my bright boyhood is sapped. I am old and stricken in years.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Georgie, <i>do, do</i> tell me!” + </p> + <p> + This ridiculous George gave a boyish laugh; clasped his Mary again; + squeezed her to him till she gasped. “I've got you, Mary!” he said. He + kissed the gold hair. “I've got you. I'm going to see you every day. + You're coming down to live at Herons' Holt.” + </p> + <p> + Then he told her. + </p> + <h3> + VI. + </h3> + <p> + Miss Ram returned; directed at George a bow that Was one huge note of + interrogation. + </p> + <p> + “Quite satisfactory,” George replied. “I am sure my uncle will agree.” + </p> + <p> + “There is, of course,” objected Miss Ram, “the unfortunate matter of + references.” + </p> + <p> + George took a frank air. “Miss Ram, I am quite willing to take your + personal assurances on that matter. On behalf of my uncle I accept them.” + </p> + <p> + “I will send a written statement of the matter,” said Miss Ram. Her air + was dogged. + </p> + <p> + “I most solemnly assure you that is unnecessary.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Ram killed him with a bow. “It is my custom. I have the reputation of + seventeen years to sustain.” + </p> + <p> + George quailed. + </p> + <p> + “Your uncle,” Miss Ram exclaimed, “will also wish to see Miss Humfray. She + shall go this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “Not this afternoon,” George told her. “No. To-morrow. He could not see + her to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. To-morrow. To-night I will write the references to him. Kindly + pay the fee to Miss Porter in the office. Good morning!” + </p> + <p> + She pushed him off with a stabbing bow. He fled. + </p> + <h3> + VII. + </h3> + <p> + In that delectable interview during Miss Ram's absence George had arranged + with his Mary that this was a day to be celebrated. She should not proceed + instantly to be weighed by Mr. Marrapit; let that ordeal be given to the + morrow. This splendid day should splendidly end; tremendous gaiety should + with a golden clasp fasten the golden hours of the morning. In the + afternoon he had a lecture and clinical demonstrations. Like a horse he + would work till half-past six. At seven he would meet his Mary in Sloane + Square. + </p> + <p> + So it was. At that hour George from the top of his 'bus spied his Mary + upon the little island in the Square. He sprang down and his first action + was to show a fat and heavy sovereign, pregnant with delights, lying in + his palm. + </p> + <p> + “Borrowed,” said George. “One pound sterling. Twenty shillings net. And + every penny of it is going to fly.” + </p> + <p> + He called a hansom, and they smoothly rolled to Earl's Court. + </p> + <p> + When sovereigns are rare possessions, how commanding an air the feel of + one imparts! Mary watched her George with pride. How masterful was he! How + deferential the head waiter at the restaurant in the Exhibition became! + The man was putting them off with an inner table. Her George by a look and + a word had him in a minute to right-abouts, and one of the coveted tables + upon the verandah was theirs. Waiters flocked about. With such an air did + George command the cheapest wine upon the list that the waiter, whose lip + ordinarily would have curled at such an order, hastened to its execution + with dignity of task, deference of service. + </p> + <p> + They ate robustly through the menu: faltered not nor checked at a single + dish. They passed remarks upon their neighbours. At intervals George would + say, “Isn't this fine, Mary?”; or his Mary would say, “Oh, Georgie, isn't + this splendid?” And the other would answer, “Rather!” + </p> + <p> + A meal and a conversation to make your proper lovers shudder! There was no + nibbling at and toying with food; there was no drinking and feasting from + the light of one another's eyes. When George felt thirsty he would put his + nose in the cheap claret and keep it there till mightily refreshed; such + hungry yearnings as his Mary felt she satisfied with knife and fork. These + were very simple children and exceedingly healthy. + </p> + <p> + But while his Mary's tongue ached with a cold, cold ice, George was in the + pangs of mental arithmetic. As the bill stood, that pregnant sovereign had + given birth to all the delights of which it was capable; was shattered and + utterly wrecked in child-bed. + </p> + <p> + A waiter came bustling. There was just time. George leant across. “Mary, + when I ask you if you'll have coffee, say you prefer it outside—it's + cheaper there.” + </p> + <p> + “Coffee, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Special coffee,” George ordered nonchalantly. “Yes, two. One moment. + Would you rather have your coffee outside near the band, Mary?” + </p> + <p> + His Mary was splendid. She looked around the room, she looked into the + cool night—and there her eye longer lingered. “It's cooler outside,” + she said. “I think it would be nicer outside, if you don't mind.” + </p> + <p> + “All right.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure you don't mind?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no; no, not a bit. Bill, waiter.” + </p> + <p> + The waiter bowed low over his munificent tip; dropped it into a jingling + pocket. George gathered his miserable change; slid it silently to where it + lay companionless; with his Mary passed into the warm night. + </p> + <p> + In the Empress Gardens they found a hidden table; here sipped coffee, and + here were most dreadfully common. Mary's hand crept into her George's; + they spoke little. The warm night breeze gently kissed their faces; the + band stirred deepest depths; they set their eyes upon the velvety darkness + that lay beyond the lights, and there pictured one another in a delectable + future. Mary saw a very wonderful George; now and then glimpsed a very + happy little Mary in a wonderful home. George also saw a happy little Mary + in a wonderful home, but he more clearly followed a very wonderful George, + magnificently accomplishing the mighty things that made the little Mary + happy. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + George kissed his Mary upon the doorstep of the Battersea lodgings; caught + the last train to Paltley Hill; and as he walked home from the station the + scented hedges murmured to him with his Mary's voice. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> + <h3> + The Girl Comes Near The Lugger. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + At breakfast upon the following day George set forth the result of his + labours; with urgent eloquence extolled the virtues of this Miss Humfray. + </p> + <p> + Before Mr. Marrapit's plate lay an open envelope; upon the back George + could read the inscription “Norfolk Street Agency for Distressed + Gentlewomen.” + </p> + <p> + What had Miss Ram said of his Mary? The thought that she had written a + reference which at the last moment would dash into dust this mighty + scheme, was as a twisting knife in George's vitals. Every time that Mr. + Marrapit stretched his hand for the letter the agitated young man upon a + fresh impulse would dash into defiant eulogy of his darling; and so + impetuous was the rush of his desperate words that at the beat of every + new wave Mr. Marrapit would withdraw his startled hand from the letter; + frown at George across the coffee-pot. + </p> + <p> + At last: “Sufficient,” he announced. “Curb zeal. Mount discretion. Satisfy + the demands of appetite. You have not touched food. Tasks he before you. + Do not starve the brain. I am tired of your eulogies of this person. For + twenty-one minutes you have been hurling advertisements at me. I am a + hoarding.” + </p> + <p> + The bill-sticker pushed a piece of bacon into a dry mouth; sat with + goggling eyes. + </p> + <p> + The hoarding continued: “I have here this person's reference. It is good.” + </p> + <p> + “Down shot the piece of bacon; convulsively bolted like Miss Porter's + sweet. + </p> + <p> + “Good!” cried George. + </p> + <p> + “I said good. For faulty articulation I apologise.” + </p> + <p> + “I know, I heard. I meant that I am pleased.” + </p> + <p> + “Strive to express the meaning. The person arrives for inspection at + mid-day. For your assistance I tender thanks. The incident is now closed. + Do you labour at hospital to-day?” + </p> + <p> + George had determined to be at the fount of news. In town, uncertain, he + could have applied himself to nothing. He said: + </p> + <p> + “No, here; I work here to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “To your tasks,” commanded Mr. Marrapit. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + George went to his room, but his tasks through that morning lay neglected. + </p> + <p> + Impossible to work. He was in a position at which at one time or another + most of us are placed. He was upon one end of a balanced see-saw, and he + was blindfolded so that it was impossible to see what might happen upon + the other extremity. Suddenly he might be swung up to highest delight; + suddenly he might be dashed earthwards to hit ground with a jarring thud. + The one eventuality or the other was certain; but he must sit blindfold + and helpless—unable to affect the balance by an ounce. Here is the + position in which all of us are made cowards. Bring the soldier into + action, and his blood will run hot enough to make him intoxicated and + insensible to fear; hold him in reserve, and courage will begin to ooze. + Give us daylight in which we may see aught that threatens us, and likely + enough we shall have desperate courage sufficient to rush in and grapple; + it is in the darkness that uncertainty sets teeth chattering. More prayers + are said, and with more devotion, at night than in the morning. We creep + and crawl and squirm to heaven when the uncertainty of the night has to be + faced; but we can get along well enough, thank you, when we spring out of + bed with the courage of morning. + </p> + <p> + George could not work until he knew whether he was to be swung high or + thrown low. He paced his room; glimpsed his watch; tremendously smoked—and + groaned aloud as, at every turn, he would receive the buffets of + recollection of some important point upon which he had omitted to school + his Mary. + </p> + <p> + In those desperate moments he decided finally that Margaret should not be + told that Mary and he were so much more than strangers. Supposing all went + well, and his Mary came to Herons' Holt, her safety and his would + certainly be imperilled by giving the key of their secret to his cousin. + It was a hard resolve. About the beautiful romance of the thing Margaret's + nature would have crooned as a mother over her suckling. She would have + mothered it, cherished it, given them a hundred opportunities of + exchanging for clasps and whispers the chilly demeanour they must bear one + to another. But the pleasure must be foregone. My George had the + astonishing sense to know that the animal instinct in Margaret's nature + would outride the romance. Twice the countless years that separate us from + the gathering of our first instincts may pass, and this the strongest of + them—the abhorrence of secrecy-will never be uprooted. When all life + was a ferocious struggle for life, secrecy—and it would have been + the secret of a store of food—was inimical to the existence of the + pack: it was opposed to the first of the slowly forming laws of nature. + There must be equality of opportunity that all might equally be tested. + Thus it was that a secret hoard of food, when come upon, instantly was + noised abroad by the discoverer, and its possessor torn to death; and thus + it is to-day that a secret once beyond the persons immediately concerned + is carried from mouth to mouth till the world has it, and its first + possessors take the violence of discovery. + </p> + <p> + For a reason that was almost similar George negatived the impulse which + bade him meet his Mary at the station, walk with her to the house, and + leave her before the gates. For, supposing again that she were accepted + and came to Herons' Holt, this suspicious meeting would come flying to Mr. + Marrapit upon the breezes that whirl in and out of every cranny and nook + in small communities. Towns are blind and deaf; villages have peeping + eyes, straining ears, loose mouths, that pry and listen and whisper. + </p> + <p> + Almost upon the hour of twelve there came to the agitated young man's ears + a ring that could be none other than hers. + </p> + <p> + He tip-toed to the banisters; peered below. His Mary was ushered in. + </p> + <p> + While she stood behind the maid who tapped on Mr. Marrapit's door, she + glanced up. George had a glimpse of her face; waved encouragement from the + stairhead. + </p> + <p> + The maid stood aside. His Mary passed in to the ogre's den. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + Clad in a dressing-gown, Mr. Marrapit was standing against the fireplace. + My trembling Mary settled just clear of the closing door; took his gaze. + He put his eye upon her face; slowly travelled it down her person; rested + it upon her little shoes; again brought it up; again carried it down; this + time left it at her feet. + </p> + <p> + The gaze seemed to burn her stockings. She shuffled; little squirms of + fright nudged her. She glanced at her feet, fearful of some hideous hole + in her shoes. + </p> + <p> + “I am—” she jerked. + </p> + <p> + Then Mr. Marrapit spoke: “I see you are. Discontinue.” + </p> + <p> + The command was shot at her. Trembling against the shock she could only + murmur: “Discontinue?” + </p> + <p> + “Assuredly. Discontinue. Refrain. Adjust.” + </p> + <p> + “Discontinue...?” With difficulty she articulated the word, then put after + it on a little squeak: “... What?” + </p> + <p> + “It,” rapped Mr. Marrapit. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid—” + </p> + <p> + “I quake in terror.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Pah!” Mr. Marrapit exclaimed. “You said 'I am.' Were you not about to say + 'I am standing on the polished boards'?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “I believed that was in your mind. Let it now enter your mind. You are on + the polished boards. You have high heels. I quake in terror lest they have + left scratch or blemish. Adjust your position.” + </p> + <p> + Mary stepped to the carpet. She was dumb before this man. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit bent above the polished flooring where she had stood. “There + is no scratch,” he announced, “neither is there any blemish.” He resumed + his post against the fireplace and again regarded her: “You are young.” + </p> + <p> + “I am older really.” + </p> + <p> + “Elucidate that.” + </p> + <p> + “I mean—I am not inexperienced.” + </p> + <p> + “Why say one thing and mean another? Beware the habit. It is perilous.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed it is not my habit.” + </p> + <p> + “It is your recreation, then. Do not indulge it. Continue.” + </p> + <p> + “I am young, but I have had experience. I think if you were to engage me I + would give you satisfaction.” + </p> + <p> + “Adduce grounds.” + </p> + <p> + “I would try in every way to do as you required. I understand I am to look + after cats.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “Here.” + </p> + <p> + “Abandon that impression. I have not said so.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I mean if you engage me.” + </p> + <p> + “Again you say one thing and mean another. I am suspicious. It is a + habit.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, <i>indeed</i> it is not.” + </p> + <p> + “Then if a recreation, a recreation to which you are devoted. You romp in + it. Twice within a minute you have gambolled.” + </p> + <p> + My Mary blinked tears. Since rising that morning, her nerves had been upon + the stretch against this interview. She had schooled herself against all + possibilities so as to win into the house of her dear George, yet at every + moment she seemed to fall further from success. + </p> + <p> + “You ca-catch me up so,” she trembled. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit expanded upwards. “Catch you up! A horrible accusation. The + table is between us.” + </p> + <p> + “You mis-misunderstand me.” She silenced a little sniff with a dab of her + handkerchief. She looked very pretty. Mr. Marrapit placed beside her the + mental image of Mrs. Major; and at every point she had the prize. He liked + the soft gold hair; he liked the forlorn little face it enframed; he liked + the slim little form. His cats, he suspected, would appreciate those nice + little hands; he judged her to have nice firm legs against which his cats + could rub. Mrs. Major's, he apprehended, would have been bony; not legs, + but shanks. + </p> + <p> + Mary made another dab at her now red little nose. The silence increased + her silly fright. “You mis-misunderstand me,” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + With less asperity Mr. Marrapit told her: “I cannot accept the blame. You + wrap your meanings. I plunge and grope after them. Eluding me, I am + compelled to believe them wilfully thrown. Strive to let your yea be yea + and your nay nay. With circumspection proceed.” + </p> + <p> + Mary gathered her emotion with a final little sniff. “I like ca-cats.” + </p> + <p> + “I implore you not to accuse me of misunderstanding you. A question is + essential. You do not always pronounce 'cats' in two syllables?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no.” + </p> + <p> + “Satisfactory. You said 'ca-cats.' Doubtless under stress of emotion. + Proceed.” + </p> + <p> + Mary sniffed; proceeded. “I like ca-cats—cats. If you were to engage + me I am sure your cats would take to me.” + </p> + <p> + “I admit the possibility. I like your appearance. I like your voice. Had + you knowledge of the acute supersensitiveness of my cats you would + understand that they will appreciate those points. I do not require in you + veterinary knowledge; I require sympathetic traits. I do not engage you to + nurse my cats—though, should mischance befall, that would come + within your duties,—but to be their companion, their friend. You are + a lady; themselves ancestral they will appreciate that. I understand you + are an orphan; there also a bond links you with them. All cats are + orphans. It is the sole unfortunate trait of their characters that they + are prone to forget their offspring. In so far as it is possible to + correct this failing amongst my own cats, I have done my best. Amongst + them the sanctity of the marriage tie is strictly observed. The word stud + is peculiarly abhorrent to me. Polygamy is odious. There is a final point. + Pray seat yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Mary took a chair. Mr. Marrapit, standing before her, gazed down upon her. + From her left he gazed, then from her right. He returned to the fireplace. + </p> + <p> + “It is satisfactory,” he said. “You have a nice lap. That is of first + importance. The question of wages has been settled. Arrive to-morrow. You + are engaged.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK V. + </h2> + <h3> + Of Mr. Marrapit upon the Rack: of George in Torment. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <h3> + Prosiness Upon Events: So Uneventful That It Should Be Skipped. + </h3> + <p> + If we write that Mary's first month at Herons' Holt was uneventful, we use + the term as a figure of speech that must be taken in its accepted sense; + not read literally. For it is impossible that life, in whatever + conditions, can be eventless. The dullest life is often with events the + most crowded. In dulness we are thrown back upon our inner selves, and + that inner self is of a construction so sensitive that each lightest + thought is an event that leaves an impression. + </p> + <p> + In action, in gaiety, in intercourse we put out an unnatural self to brunt + the beat of events. We are upon our guard. There are eyes watching us, and + from their gaze we by instinct fend our inner self just as by instinct we + fend our nakedness. + </p> + <p> + Overmuch crowded with such events, the inner self is prone to shrivel, to + fade beneath lack of nutriment; and it may happen that in time the + unnatural self will take its place, will become our very self. + </p> + <p> + That is gravely to our disadvantage. Overmuch in action, the man of + affairs may win the admiration of a surface-seeing world; may capture the + benefits of strong purpose, of wealth, and of position. But he is in + danger of utterly losing the fruits that only by the inner, the original, + and true self can be garnered. + </p> + <p> + Life presents for our pursuit two sets of treasures. The one may be had by + the labours of the hands; the other by exercise of the intellect—the + true self. And at once this may be said: that the treasures heaped by the + hands soil the hands, and the stain sinks deep. The stain enters the blood + and, thence oozing, pigments every part of the being—the face, the + voice, the mind, the thoughts. For we cannot labour overlong in the fields + without besweating the brow; and certainly we cannot ceaselessly toil + after the material treasures of life without gathering the traces of that + labour upon our souls. It stains, and the stain is ugly. + </p> + <p> + Coming to treasures stored by exercise of the intellect, the true self, + these also put their mark upon the possessor; but the action is different + and the results are different. Here the pigment that colours the life does + not come from without but distils from within. Man does not stoop to rend + these treasures from the earth; he rises to them. They do not bow; they + uplift. They are not wrenched in trampling struggle from the sties where + men battle for the troughs; they are absorbed from the truths of life that + are as breezes upon the little hills. They are in the face of Nature and + in Nature's heart; they are in the written thoughts of men whose thoughts + rushed upward like flames, not dropped like plummet-stones—soared + after truth and struck it to our understanding, not made soundings for + earthy possessions showing how these might be gained. + </p> + <p> + Yet it is not to be urged that the quest of material treasures is to be + despised, or that life properly lived is life solely dreaming among + truths. The writer who made the story of the Israelites sickening of + manna, wrapped in legend the precept that man to live must work for life. + We are not living if we are not working. We cannot have strength but we + win meat to make strength. + </p> + <p> + No; my protest is against the heaping of material treasure to the neglect + of treasure stored by the true self. Material treasure is not ours. We but + have the enjoyment of it while we can defend it from the forces that + constantly threaten it. Misfortune, sorrow, sickness—these are ever + in leash against us; may at any moment be slipped. Misfortune may whirl + our material treasures from us; sorrow or sickness may canker them, turn + them to ashes in the mouth. They are not ours; we hold them upon + sufferance. But the treasures of the intellect, the gift of being upon + nodding terms with truth, these are treasures that are our impregnable + own. Nothing can filch them, nothing canker them: they are our own—imperishable, + inexhaustible; never wanting when called upon; balm to heal the blows of + adversity, specific against all things malign. Cultivate the perception of + beauty, the knowledge of truth; learn to distinguish between the realities + of life and the dross of life; and you have a great shield of fortitude of + which certainly man cannot rob you, and against which sickness, sorrow, or + misfortune may strike tremendous blows without so much as bruising the + real you. + </p> + <p> + And it is in the life that is called uneventful that there is the most + opportunity for storing these treasures of the intellect. Perhaps there is + also the greater necessity. In the dull round of things we are thrown in + upon ourselves, and by every lightest thought and deed either are + strengthening that inner self or are sapping it. Either we are reading the + thoughts of men whose thoughts heap a priceless store within us, or we are + reading that which—though we are unaware—vitiates and puts + further and further beyond our grasp the truths of life; either we are + watching our lives and schooling them to feed upon thoughts and deeds that + will uplift them, or we are neglecting them, and allowing them to browse + where they will upon the rank weeds of petty spites, petty jealousies, + petty gossipings and petty deeds. In action we may have no time to waste + over this poisonous herbage; but in dulness most certainly we do have the + temptation—and as we resist or succumb so shall we conduct ourselves + when the larger events of life call us into the lists. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <h3> + Margaret Fishes; Mary Prays. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + Mary's first month at Herons' Holt was uneventful: need not be recorded. + We are following the passage of the love 'twixt her and George; and within + the radius of Mr. Marrapit's eye love durst not creep. She saw little of + her George. They were most carefully circumspect in their attitude one to + another, and conscience made their circumspection trebly stiff. There are + politenesses to be observed between the inmates of a house, but my Mary + and my George, in terror lest even these should be misconstrued, + studiously neglected them. + </p> + <p> + The aloofness troubled Margaret. This girl wrapped her sentiment about + Mary; delighting in one who, so pretty, so young, so gentle-voiced, must + face life in an alien home. The girls came naturally together, and it was + not long before Margaret bubbled out her vocation. + </p> + <p> + The talk was upon books. Margaret turned away her head; said in the voice + of one hurrying over a commonplace: “I write, you know.” + </p> + <p> + She tingled for the “Do you?” from her companion, but it did not come, and + this was very disappointing. + </p> + <p> + She stole a glance at Mary, sitting with a far-away expression in her eyes + (the ridiculous girl had heard an engine whistle; knew it to be the train + that was taking her George to London). Margaret stole a glance at Mary; + repeated louder: “I write, you know.” + </p> + <p> + It fetched the delicious response. Mary started: “Do you?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret said hurriedly: “Oh, nothing worth speaking of.” + </p> + <p> + Mary said: “Oh!”; gave her thoughts again to the train. + </p> + <p> + It was wretched of her. “Poems,” said Margaret, and stressed the word “<i>Poems</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Mary came flying back from the train. “Oh, how interesting that is!” + </p> + <p> + At once Margaret drew away. “Oh, it is nothing,” she said, “nothing.” She + put her eyes upon the far clouds; breathed “Nothing” in a long sigh. + </p> + <p> + From this it was not a far step to reading, with terrible reluctance, her + poems to Mary; nor from this again was it other than an obvious step to + telling of Bill. Her pretty verses were so clearly written at some heart + which throbbed responsive, that Mary must needs put the question. It came + after a full hour's reading—the poet sitting upon her bed in a + litter of manuscripts, Mary in a low chair before her. + </p> + <p> + In a tremulous voice the poet concluded the refrain of an exquisite verse: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Beat for beat, your heart, my darling, + Beats with mine. + Skylarks carol, quick responsive, + Love divine.” + </pre> + <p> + The poet gave a little gulp; laid down her paper. + </p> + <p> + Mary also gulped. From both their pretty persons emotion welled in a great + flood that filled the room. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure that is written <i>to</i> somebody,” Mary breathed. + </p> + <p> + Margaret nodded. This girl was too ravished with the grip of the thing to + be capable of words. + </p> + <p> + Mary implored: “Oh, do tell me!” + </p> + <p> + Then Margaret told the story of Bill—with intimate details and in + the beautiful phrases of the poet mind she told it, and the flooding + emotion piled upwards to the very roof. + </p> + <p> + Love has rightly been pictured as a naked babe. Men together will examine + a baby—if they must—with a bashful diffidence that pulls down + the clothes each time the infant kicks; women dote upon each inch of its + chubby person. And so with love. Men will discuss their love—if they + must—with the most prudish decorum; women undress it. + </p> + <p> + It becomes essential, therefore, that what Margaret said to Mary must not + be discovered. + </p> + <p> + When she had ceased she put out a hand for the price of her confidence: + “And have you—are you—I know practically nothing about you, + Mary, dear. <i>Do</i> tell me, are <i>you</i> in love?” + </p> + <p> + Bang went the gates of Mary's emotion. Here was awful danger. She laughed. + “Oh, I've no time to fall in love, have I?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret sighed her sympathy; then gazed at Mary. + </p> + <p> + Mary read the gaze aright. These were women, and they read one another by + knowledge of sex. Mary knew Margaret's gaze to be that of an archer + sighting at his mark, estimating the chances of a hit. She saw the arrow + that was to come speeding at her breast; gathered her emotions so that she + should not flinch at the wound. + </p> + <p> + Margaret twanged the bow-string. “No time to fall in love?” she murmured. + She fitted the shaft; let fly. “Do you like George, dear?” + </p> + <p> + Mary stooped to her shoe-laces. Despite her preparations the arrow had + pierced, and she hid her face to hide the blood. + </p> + <p> + “George?” said she, head to floor. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, George. Do you like George?” + </p> + <p> + My Mary sat up, brazen. “George? Oh, you mean your cousin? I daresay he's + very nice. Practically I've never even spoken to him since I've been + here.” + </p> + <p> + “I know. Of course he's very busy just now. Do you think you would like + him if you did know him?” + </p> + <p> + It was murderous work. Mary was beginning to quiver beneath the arrows; + was in terror lest she should betray the secret. A desperate kick was + necessary. She wildly searched for a foothold; found it; kicked: + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure I shouldn't like him.” + </p> + <p> + The poet softly protested: “Oh why, Mary?” + </p> + <p> + “He's clean-shaven.” + </p> + <p> + “And you don't like a—” + </p> + <p> + “I can't stand a—” + </p> + <p> + “But if he had a—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if he had a—Margaret, I hear Mr. Marrapit calling. I must fly.” + She fled. + </p> + <p> + Upon a sad little sigh the poet moved to her table; drew heliotrope paper + towards her; wrote: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Why are your hearts asunder, ye so fair?” + </pre> + <p> + A thought came to her then, and she put her pen in her mouth; pursued the + idea. That evening she walked to the gate and met George upon his return. + After a few paces, “George,” she asked, “do you like Mary?” + </p> + <p> + George was never taken aback. “Mary? Mary who?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Humfray.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, is her name Mary?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course it is.” Margaret slipped her arm through George's; gazed up at + him. “Do you like her, George?” + </p> + <p> + “Like whom?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Mary—Miss Humfray.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I think she's a little better than Mrs. Major—in some ways. If + that's what you mean.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret sighed. Such mulish indifference was a dreadful thing to this + girl. But she had set her heart on this romance. + </p> + <p> + “George, dear, I wish you would do something for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Anything.” + </p> + <p> + “How nice you are! Will you grow a moustache?” + </p> + <p> + She anxiously awaited the answer. George took his handkerchief from his + pocket and wiped his eyes. He did not speak. + </p> + <p> + She asked him: “What is the matter?” + </p> + <p> + He said brokenly: “You know not what you ask. I cannot grow a moustache. + It is my secret sorrow, my little cross. There is only one way. It is by + pushing up the hairs from inside with the handle of a tooth-brush and + tying a knot to prevent them slipping back. You have to do it every + morning, and I somehow can never remember it.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret slipped her arm free; without a word walked to the house. + </p> + <p> + She was hurt. This girl had the artistic temperament, and the artistic + temperament feels things most dreadfully. It even feels being kept waiting + for its meals. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + George followed the pained young woman into the house; set down in the + hall the books he carried; left the house again; out through the gate, and + so, whistling gaily along roads and lanes, came to the skirts of an + outlying copse. By disused paths he twisted this way and that to approach, + at length, a hut that once was cottage, whose dilapidated air advertised + long neglect. + </p> + <p> + It was a week after Mary's arrival at Herons' Holt that, quite by chance, + George had stumbled upon this hut. He had taken his books into the copse, + had somehow lost his way in getting out, and through thick undergrowth had + plumped suddenly upon the building. Curiosity had taken him within, shown + him an outer and an inner room, and, in the second, a sight that had given + him laughter; for he discovered there sundry empty bottles labelled “Old + Tom,” a glass, an envelope addressed to Mrs. Major. It was clear that in + this deserted place—somehow chanced upon—the masterly woman + had been wont, safe from disturbance, to meet the rascal who, taken to + Herons' Holt on that famous night, had so villainously laid her by the + heels. + </p> + <p> + Nothing more George had thought of the place until the morning of this day + when, leaving for hospital, his Mary had effected a brief whispered moment + to tell him that Mr. Marrapit had thought her looking pale, had told her + to take a long walk that afternoon. Immediately George gave her directions + for the hut; there he would meet her at five o'clock; there not the most + prying eye could reach them. + </p> + <p> + Now he approached noiselessly; saw his pretty Mary, back towards him, just + within the threshold of the open door. It was their first secluded meeting + since she had come to Herons' Holt. + </p> + <p> + Upon tip-toe George squirmed up to her; hissed “I have thee, girl”; sprang + on his terrified Mary; hugged her to him. + </p> + <p> + “The first moment together in Paltley Hill!” he cried. “The first holy + kiss!” + </p> + <p> + His Mary wriggled. “George! You frightened me nearly out of my life. It's + not holy. You're hurting me awfully.” + </p> + <p> + “My child, it is holy. Trust in me.” + </p> + <p> + “George, you <i>are</i> hurting.” + </p> + <p> + “Scorn that. It is delicious!” + </p> + <p> + He let her from his arms; but he held her hands, and for a space, looking + at one another, they did not speak. Despite he was in wild spirits, + despite her roguishness, for a space they did not speak. His hands were + below hers and about hers. The contact of their palms was the junction + whence each literally could feel the other's spirit being received and + pouring inwards. The metals were laid true, and without hitch or delay the + delectable thrill came pouring; above, between their eyes, on wires + invisible they signalled its safe arrival. + </p> + <p> + They broke upon a little laugh that was their utmost expression of the + intoxication of this draught of love, just as a man parched with thirst + will with a little sigh put down the glass that has touched him back to + vigour. Dumb while they drank, their innate earthiness made them dumb + before effort to express the spiritual heights to which they had been + whirled. In that moment when, spirit mingling with spirit through the + medium of what we call love, all our baseness is driven out of us, we are + nearest heaven. But our vocabulary being only fitted for the needs about + us, we have no words to express the elevation. Debase love and we can + speak of it; let it rush upwards to its apotheosis and we must be dumb. + </p> + <p> + With a little laugh they broke. + </p> + <p> + “Going on all right, old girl?” George asked. + </p> + <p> + “Splendidly.” + </p> + <p> + “Happy?” + </p> + <p> + She laughed and said: “I will give the proper answer to that. How can I be + other than happy, oh, my love, when daily I see your angel form?” + </p> + <p> + “I forgot that. Yes, you're a lucky girl in that way—very, very + lucky. Beware lest you do not sufficiently prize your treasure. Cherish + it, tend it, love it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't fool, George. Whenever we have two minutes together you waste + them in playing the goat. Georgie, tell me—about your exam.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + She was at once serious. “To-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow I thrust my angel form into the examination room. To-morrow my + angel voice trills in the examiners' ears.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you had a paper first, before the viva?” + </p> + <p> + “Do not snap me up, girl. I speak in metaphors. To-morrow my angel hand + glides my pen over the paper. On Thursday my angel tongue gives forth my + wisdom with the sound of a tinkling cymbal.” + </p> + <p> + “The paper to-morrow, the viva on Thursday?” + </p> + <p> + He bowed his angel head. + </p> + <p> + “George, don't, <i>don't</i> fool. Are you nervous? Will you pass?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall rush, I shall bound. I shall hurtle through like a great + boulder.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Georgie!</i> Will you?” + </p> + <p> + He dropped his banter. “I believe I shall, old girl. I really think I + shall. I've simply sweated my life out these weeks—all for you.” + </p> + <p> + She patted his hand. “Dear old George! How I shall think of you! And + then?” + </p> + <p> + “Then—why, then, we'll marry! Mary, I shall hear the result + immediately after the viva. Then I shall rush back here and tackle old + Marrapit at once. If he won't give me the money I think perhaps he'll lend + it, and then we'll shoot off to Runnygate and take up that practice and + live happily ever after.” + </p> + <p> + With the brave ardour of youth they discussed the delectable picture; + arranged the rooms they had never seen; planned the daily life of which + they had not the smallest experience. + </p> + <p> + Twice in our lives we can play at Make-Believe—once when we are + children, once when we are lovers. And these are the happiest times of our + lives. We are not commoners then; we are emperors. We touch the sceptre + and it is a magic wand. We rule the world, shaping it as we will, dropping + from between our fingers all the stony obstacles that would interfere with + its plasticity. Between childhood and love, and between love and death, + the world rules us and bruises us. But in childhood, and again in love, we + rule the world. + </p> + <p> + So they ruled their world. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + That night Mary prayed her George might pass his examination—a + prayer to make us wise folk laugh. The idea of our conception of the + Divinity deliberately thrusting into George's mind knowledge that he + otherwise had not, the idea of the Divinity deliberately prompting the + examiners to questions that George could answer—these are ludicrous + to us in our wisdom. We have the superiority of my simple Mary in point of + intelligence; well, let us hug that treasure and make the most of it. + Because we miss the sense of confidence with which Mary got from her + knees; passed into her dreams. With our fine intellects we should lie + awake fretting such troubles. These simple, stupid Marys just hand the + tangle on and sleep comforted. They call it Faith. + </p> + <p> + Yes, but isn't it grand to be of that fine, brave, intellectual, + hard-headed, business-like stamp that trusts nothing it cannot see and + prove? Rather! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <h3> + Barley Water For Mr. Marrapit. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + Up the drive George came bounding with huge strides. The fires of + tremendous joy that roared within him impelled him to enormous energy. + </p> + <p> + Upon the journey from Waterloo to Paltley Hill he could with difficulty + restrain himself from leaping upon the seat; bawling “I've passed! I've + passed! I'm qualified!” He could not sit still. He fidgeted, wriggled; + thrust his head first from one window, then from the other. Every foot of + the line was well known to him. To each familiar landmark his spirit + bellowed: “Greeting! When last you saw me I was coming up in a blue funk. + Now! Oh, good God, now—” and he would draw in, stride the carriage, + and thrust his head from the other window. + </p> + <p> + His four fellow-passengers regarded him with some apprehension. They + detected signs of lunacy in the young man; kept a nervous eye cocked upon + the alarm cord; at the first stopping place with one accord arose and + fled. One, signing herself “Lady Shareholder,” had her alarming experience + in her daily-paper upon the following morning. + </p> + <p> + At his station George leapt for the platform a full minute before the + train had stopped. Up the lanes he sent his bursting spirits flying in + shrill whistlings and gay hummings; slashed stones with his stick; struck + across the fields and took gates and stiles in great spread-eagled vaults. + </p> + <p> + So up the drive, stones still flying, whistlings still piping. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + Upon the lawn he espied Mr. Marrapit and his Mary. She, on a garden seat, + was reading aloud from the <i>Times</i>; Mr. Marrapit, on a deep chair + stretched to make lap for the Rose of Sharon, sat a little in advance of + her. + </p> + <p> + George approached from Mr. Marrapit's flank; soft turf muffled his + strides. The warm glow of kindliness towards all the world, which his + success had stoked burning within him, put a foreign word upon his tongue. + He sped it on a boisterous note: + </p> + <p> + “Uncle!” he cried. “Uncle, I've passed!” + </p> + <p> + Mary crushed the <i>Times</i> between her hands; bounded to her feet. + “Oh!” she cried. “Hip! hur—!” + </p> + <p> + She bit the final exclamation; dropped to her seat. Mr. Marrapit had + twisted his eye upon her. + </p> + <p> + “You are in pain?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No—oh, no.” + </p> + <p> + “You have a pang in the hip?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no—no.” + </p> + <p> + “But you bounded. You cried 'hip'! Whose hip?” + </p> + <p> + “I was startled.” + </p> + <p> + “Unsatisfactory. The brain, not the hip, is the seat of the emotion. + Elucidate.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know why I said 'hip.' I was startled. Mr. George startled me.” + </p> + <p> + “Me also he startled. I did not shout hip, thigh, leg nor knee. Control + the tongue.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to George. “Miss Humfray's extraordinary remark has projected + this dilatory reception of your news. I beg you repeat it.” + </p> + <p> + Sprayed upon between mortification and laughter at the manner of his + greeting, George's enthusiasm was a little damped. But its flame was too + fierce to be hurt by a shower. Now it roared again. “I've passed!” he + cried. “I'm qualified!” + </p> + <p> + “I tender my felicitations. Accept them. Leave us, Miss Humfray. This is a + mighty hour. Take the Rose. Give her cream. Let her with us rejoice.” + </p> + <p> + Mary raised the cat. She faced about so that she directly shut Mr. + Marrapit from his nephew; with her dancing eyes spoke her happiness to her + George; passed down the lawn. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit drew in the lap he had been making. He sat upright. “Again, + accept my felicitations,” he said. “They are yours. Take them.” + </p> + <p> + With fitting words George took them. Mr. Marrapit continued: “It is a + mighty hour. Through adversity we have won to peace, through perils to + port, through hurts to harbour.” + </p> + <p> + He paused. + </p> + <p> + “You mean—” George said, groping. + </p> + <p> + “Do not interpose. It is a mighty hour. Let this scene sink into our minds + and march with us to the grave. Here upon the lawn we stand. Westward the + setting sun. Creeping towards us the lengthening shadows. Between us the + horrid discord which has so long reigned no longer stands. It is banished + by a holy peace. The past is dead. My trust is ended. The vow which I + swore unto your mother I have steadfastly kept. I would nourish you, I + declared, until you were a qualified physician. You are a qualified + physician. I have nourished you. Frequently in the future, upon a written + invitation, I trust you will visit this home in which your youth has been + spent. When do you leave?” + </p> + <p> + The query towards which Mr. Marrapit had been making through his psalm + came to George with a startling abruptness that was disconcerting. He had + not anticipated it. He jerked: “When do I—leave?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. The hour of your departure, unduly deferred by idleness and + waywardness upon which we will not dwell, is now at hand. When does it + fall? Not to-night, I trust? A last night you will, I hope, spend beneath + my roof. To-morrow, perchance? What are your plans?” + </p> + <p> + George flamed. “You're in a mighty hurry to get rid of me.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit cast upward his eyes. He groaned: + </p> + <p> + “Again I am misunderstood. All my life I have been misunderstood.” He + became stern. “Ingrate! Is it not patent to you that my desire is not to + stand in your way? You have earned manhood, freedom, a charter to wrest + money from the world. I might stay you. I do not. I bid you Godspeed.” + </p> + <p> + George remembered his weighty purpose. Making for it, he became humble. “I + am sorry,” he said. “I see what you mean. I appreciate your kindness. You + ask what are my plans. I have come specially to lay them before you.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit clutched the seat of his chair with the action of one waiting + a dentist's torture. He had a premonition that support of some kind would + be necessary. “Proceed,” he said. + </p> + <p> + George said: “My plans—” He swallowed. “My plans—” Again he + swallowed. His plans were red-hot within him, but he sought despairingly + for one that would not at the very outset turn Mr. Marrapit into screams. + “My plans—” he stammered. + </p> + <p> + “My God!” Mr. Marrapit groaned. “My God! What is coming?” + </p> + <p> + George said on a rush: “These are my plans. I intend to marry—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit gave a faint little bark. + </p> + <p> + “Then—then—” said George, floundering. “After that—then—I + intend to marry—I—” + </p> + <p> + “Bigamy,” Mr. Marrapit murmured. “Bigamy.” + </p> + <p> + “Not twice. I am nervous. I intend to marry. I want to buy a little + seaside practice that is for sale.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit repeated the faint little bark. He was lying back, eyes half + closed, face working upon some inward stress. + </p> + <p> + “Those are my plans,” George summarised: “to marry and buy this practice.” + </p> + <p> + A considerable pause followed. The workings of Mr. Marrapit's face ceased; + he opened his eyes, sat up. “When?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “At once.” + </p> + <p> + “This practice—” + </p> + <p> + “I have it in my eye.” + </p> + <p> + “Immaterial. Have you it in your pocket?” + </p> + <p> + “You mean the price?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean the money wherewith to finance these appalling schemes.” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly. It is about that I wish to speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + “To <i>me?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I wanted to ask—” + </p> + <p> + “You intend to ask me for money?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to suggest—” + </p> + <p> + “How much?” + </p> + <p> + “Four—five hundred pounds.” + </p> + <p> + “Great heaven!” Mr. Marrapit wildly fingered the air. Margaret, at the end + of the lawn, crossed his vision. He called huskily: “Margaret!” + </p> + <p> + She tripped to him. “Father! What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Barley water!” Mr. Marrapit throated. “Barley water!” + </p> + <p> + While she was upon her errand no—words passed between the two. Mr. + Marrapit took the glass from her in shaking hands. “Leave us,” he said. He + drank of his barley water; placed the glass upon the bench beside him; + gave George a wan smile. “I am stricken in years,” he said. “I have passed + through a trance or conscious nightmare. You will have had experience of + such affections of the brain. I thought”—the hideous memory shook + him—“I thought you asked me for five hundred pounds.” + </p> + <p> + George said defiantly: “I did.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit frantically reached for the barley water; feverishly gulped. + “I shall have a stroke,” he cried. “My hour is at hand.” + </p> + <p> + My poor George flung himself on a note of appeal. “Oh, I say, uncle, don't + go on like that! You don't know what this means to me.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not seek to know. I am too fully occupied with its consequences to + myself; it means a stroke. I feel it coming. My tomb yawns.” + </p> + <p> + George gripped together his hands; paced a few strides; returned. “Oh, for + heaven's sake, don't go on like that! Won't you listen to me? Is it + impossible to speak with you as man to man? If you refuse what I ask, you + have only to say no.” + </p> + <p> + “You promise that?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course; of course.” + </p> + <p> + “I say it now, then. No.” + </p> + <p> + “But you haven't heard me.” + </p> + <p> + “Unnecessary.” + </p> + <p> + The tortured young man raised his voice. + </p> + <p> + “It is necessary! You shall! You must!” + </p> + <p> + “Barley water!” Mr. Marrapit gasped. “Barley water! I am going to be + murdered.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, this is insupportable!” George cried. + </p> + <p> + “I endorse that. A double death threatens me. I shudder between a stroke + and a blow. I shall be battered to death on my own lawn.” + </p> + <p> + “If you would only listen to me,” George implored. “Why can we never be + natural when we meet?” + </p> + <p> + “Search your heart for the answer,” Mr. Marrapit told him. “It is because + your demands are unnatural.” + </p> + <p> + “You haven't heard them. Listen. I am on the threshold of my career. I am + sure you will not ruin it. The real price of this practice is 650 pounds—the + value of a year and a half's income; that is the usual custom. I am + offered it for four hundred. Then I want to marry and to have a little + balance with which to start—say 100 pounds for that. That makes 500 + pounds altogether. I implore you to lend—lend, not give—that + sum. I will pay you back 50 pounds at the end of the first year and a + hundred a year afterwards. Interest too. I don't know much about these + things. Any interest you like. We would get a solicitor to draw up an + agreement. Say you will lend the money. I feel sure you will.” + </p> + <p> + “You delude yourself by that assurance.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, wait before you refuse. My prospects are so bright if only you will + help me. I have no one else to whom I can turn. It is only a loan I ask.” + </p> + <p> + “It is refused.” + </p> + <p> + George stamped away, hands to head. The poor boy was in agony. Then + returned: + </p> + <p> + “I won't believe you. You will not be so heartless. Think over what I have + said. Tell me to-night—to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “My answer would be the same.” + </p> + <p> + “You absolutely refuse to lend me the money?” + </p> + <p> + “I refuse. It is against my principles.” + </p> + <p> + My frantic George clutched at a shimmering hope. “Against your principles + to lend? Do you mean that you will give—give me 500 pounds?” + </p> + <p> + “Barley water!” Mr. Marrapit gasped. He drank; gasped: “Give 500 pounds! + You are light-headed!” + </p> + <p> + “Then lend it!” George supplicated on a last appeal. “Make any conditions + you please, and I will accept them. Uncle, think of when you were a young + man. Remember the time when you were on the threshold of your career. + Think of when you were engaged as I am now engaged. Imagine your feelings + if you had been prevented marrying. You won't stand in my way? The + happiest life is before me if you will only give your aid. Otherwise—otherwise—oh, + I say, you won't refuse?” + </p> + <p> + “I implore you to close this distressing scene.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you lend me the money?” + </p> + <p> + “My principles prevent me.” + </p> + <p> + “Then damn your principles!” George shouted. “Damn your principles!” + </p> + <p> + While he had been battering his head against this brick wall he had been + saved pain by the hope that a last chance would carry him through. Now + that he realised the futility of the endeavour, the stability of the wall, + he had time to feel the bruising he had suffered—the bitterness of + failure and of all that failure meant. The hurts combined to make him roar + with pain, and he shouted furiously again: “Damn your principles!” + </p> + <p> + “Barley water!” throated Mr. Marrapit on a note of terror. He reached for + the glass. It was empty. + </p> + <p> + He struggled to his feet; got the chair between George and himself; cried + across it: “Beware how you touch me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm not going to touch you. You needn't be afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “I have every need. I am afraid. Keep your distance. You are not + responsible for your actions.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn't be afraid, I tell you. It is too ridiculous.” + </p> + <p> + “I repeat I have need. Keep your distance. My limbs tremble as one in a + palsy.” Mr. Marrapit gripped the chair-back; his shudders advertised his + distress. + </p> + <p> + “I only want to say this,” George declaimed, “that if you refuse what I + ask, you are refusing what is lawfully mine. My mother left you 4000 + pounds for my education. At the outside you have spent three. The 500 + pounds is mine. I have a right to it.” + </p> + <p> + “Keep your distance, sir.” + </p> + <p> + My furious George took three steps forward. + </p> + <p> + “Can you answer what I say?” he shouted. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit gave a thin cry: turned, and with surprising bounds made + across the lawn. A slipper shot from his foot. He alighted upon a stone; + bounded heavenwards with a shrill scream; and hopping, leaping, shuffling, + made the corner of the house. + </p> + <p> + George swung on his heel. It occurred to him to visit Bill Wyvern. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <h3> + The Rape Of The Rose. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + Bill was away from home, the maid who answered the door told George; Mrs. + Wyvern was out; the Professor was in his study. + </p> + <p> + George found the great biologist warming his chilly old bones in a vast + armchair before a fire. + </p> + <p> + With a twinkling of his sky-blue eyes that spoke to pleasant temper, the + Professor greeted George; nodded him into an opposite seat. + </p> + <p> + “I am reading a letter,” he announced. This man spoke very slowly, never + abbreviated; had now an air of child-like happiness. “It is a letter from + Bill.” + </p> + <p> + George said: “Ah, what is Bill doing? I've not seen him for days.” + </p> + <p> + Professor Wyvern chuckled away and fumbled with clumsy old fingers among + the closely-written sheets on his lap. One he selected and inclined + towards George. Its upper half was thickly lettered in heavy red type, + prominent among which there bawled forth in wavy capitals, thickly + underscored: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “THE DAILY.” EVERYBODY'S PAPER. PRICE 1/2d. +</pre> + <p> + “Hot stuff!” George cried. “Is old Bill on the staff of the <i>Daily</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “Old Bill is on the staff of the <i>Daily</i>,” the Professor returned + with more chuckling. “You have heard of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's advertised everywhere. You can't get away from it. First + number out to-morrow, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is. I think it will be a very terrible production—a very + horrible production indeed. But I am an annual subscriber because of Bill, + and I have written a short article for the first issue also because of + Bill. Bill says” (the Professor fumbled again; ran his nose twice up and + down each sheet; finally struck the passage) “Bill says, 'You were a + brick, dear old governor, to send that article. It is a most thundering + scoop for the <i>Daily</i>, and made the Boss most awfully bucked up with + me. You are a brick, dear old Governor.” + </p> + <p> + A little tear rolled out of Professor Wyvern's silly old eye, and he blew + his nose in a series of terrific thunder-claps. + </p> + <p> + “There!” he said. “You see how pleased Bill is with himself. I am afraid + he uses the most terrible expressions in his letters, but he does not use + them when he is writing his stories. He is a clever boy, and I am very + proud of him. Now let me tell you.” He fell to nosing the sheets again. + “All this first part is about his dogs. '... if Abiram and Dathan start + scrapping, just hoof Abiram—it's his fault.'” + </p> + <p> + The Professor looked up at George. “I would more readily kick a police + constable than I would kick Abiram,” he said. “I must tell Hocken all + this.” + </p> + <p> + He continued, “'... see that Korah is kept short of meat for a bit ... + when they are exercising, for goodness' sake don't let them be taken down + Windmill Lane. There is a collie there that they have got a grudge against + and will tear to bits if they catch.'” + </p> + <p> + The Professor paused. “Oh, dear! oh, dear! I must give all this part to + Hocken to keep. Ah! Now here is about his work. They have engaged him at + four pounds a week. He does not know exactly what he is. Not a sub-editor. + Not a reporter. He thinks they will put him on to what he calls 'special + jobs,' or he may have to do what he calls 'ferret round' and find jobs for + himself. The understanding is that he is only on probation. If he does + anything very good they will put him on the permanent staff; if not, he is + liable to go at a week's notice. Then he says, 'Tell all this to George, + and give him my love. He was up for his exam—'” + </p> + <p> + Professor Wyvern broke off. “Dear me!” he cried; “oh, dear me, I have + forgotten! You have been up for your examination?” + </p> + <p> + George nodded. + </p> + <p> + Kindly old Professor Wyvern misinterpreted the lack of enthusiasm. “When I + was a medical student,” he said, “I failed dozens of times in my final + examination—dozens. It's no criterion of knowledge, you know: it is + just luck. Never let examination failure dishearten you. Go along happily, + George, and take your chance when it comes.” + </p> + <p> + “It's come,” George said, beaming; recollection of his splendid success + temporarily overshadowed recollection of his tragic failure. + </p> + <p> + “You have qualified?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + The Professor's sky-blue eyes danced with glee. He struggled on to his + tottery old legs; before George could save him the exertion, had hobbled + over the hearth-rug and was wringing his hand in tremendous pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “Well done, George!” he bubbled. “Well done! Well done! It is the most + splendid news. I have not had such a happy day for a long time. Qualified! + Well, that is splendid! Splendid!” + </p> + <p> + He fell back into his chair, panting with his excitement. “Ring that bell, + George. We must celebrate this.” + </p> + <p> + A maid appeared. “Susan,” said the Professor, “bring up a small bottle of + champagne and two glasses. Mr. George has passed his examination. Be very + quick, Susan.” + </p> + <p> + Susan was very quick. The cork popped; the glasses foamed and fizzed. “Now + we will have one glass each,” the Professor said. “I think, it will kill + me at this hour, and if my wife catches me she will send me to bed; so we + must be very quick. Now, this is your health, George. God bless you and + good luck!” + </p> + <p> + He drained his glass like the brave old boy that he was; and when his eyes + had done streaming, and he had finished gasping and choking, bade Susan + hurry away the signs of the dreadful deed before her mistress should catch + her. + </p> + <p> + “And now tell me your plans, George. Which road to Harley Street, eh?” + </p> + <p> + Then George poured into those kindly old ears all the tragic story—the + girl he was going to marry; the practice he was going to buy; the wrecker + who had wrecked his fair ships ere ever he had put to sea. + </p> + <p> + There were in the Professor's nature no sympathies that enabled him even + to comprehend miserliness in any degree. Made aware of the taint in Mr. + Marrapit, he became red and furious in his abhorrence of it. With snorts + and fumes he punctuated the recital; when it closed, burst out: “Why, but + it is yours! the money is yours. It is misappropriation.” + </p> + <p> + “That's just what I say.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he must be made to give it you.” George laughed grimly. “I say + that, too. But how?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you certain of your facts, George?” + </p> + <p> + “I've been to Somerset house and seen my mother's will.” + </p> + <p> + “Legally, then—we'll get it out of him by law.” + </p> + <p> + “I've thought of that,” George said. “I don't think it is possible. Look, + the passage runs like this. I have it word for word. 'To my brother + Christopher Marrapit 4000 pounds, and I desire him to educate in the + medical profession my son George.' Not even 'with which I desire him,' you + see. I don't think there's any legal way of getting the money I want—the + five hundred.” + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + For full ten minutes Professor Wyvern made no answer. He stared in the + fire, and every now and again one of his little chuckles set his bent old + shoulders bobbing. Upon a longer chuckle they waggled for a space; then he + turned to George. “Not legally; well, then, what about illegally, George?” + </p> + <p> + George did not comprehend. + </p> + <p> + “A very bad notion has come into my head,” the Professor continued. “I + ought to be ashamed of it, but I am not. I think it would be very funny. I + think your uncle would deserve it. I am sure it would be very funny, and I + think it would be proper and justifiable.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” George said. “Tell me.” + </p> + <p> + The Professor's old shoulders bobbed about again. “No, I will not tell + you,” he said. “I will not be a party to it; because if my wife found out + she would send me to bed and keep me there. But I will tell you a little + story, George. If it sets up a train of action that you like to follow—well, + I think it will be very funny. Only, don't tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “I say, this is mysterious. Tell me the story.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I will. This is the story. When I was a student in Germany we had a + professor called Meyer. He wore a wig because he was quite bald. He was + very sensitive about his baldness and would have no one know—but we + knew. Upon one afternoon there was a great violinist who was coming to + play at our town. All the professors announced that for this occasion they + would postpone the lectures they should then have given, so that their + classes might attend the concert. But this Professor Meyer said that he + would not postpone his lecture. It was a link in a series, you understand—not + to be missed,—so his class, of which I was one; were very furious. + We told him that we were entitled to a holiday this day since all had it, + but he would not hear us. We were very angry, for this holiday was our + right. Now, also, one week before the concert the burgomaster of our town + was to give a great banquet to the celebration of the centenary of a + famous citizen. Here our Professor Meyer was to make a speech. Well, when + he remained adamant, determined to give us no holiday, we had a great + meeting, and thus we arranged to procure the holiday that was ours by + right. Our plot was justified by his mulishness. He should lose the thing + he most cherished—he should lose his wig two days before his banquet + with the burgomaster. One of us would take his wig, seizing him as by + night he walked to his rooms. Before his distress we should be most + sympathetic, offering every aid. Perchance he would encourage our efforts + by offer of the prize we most desired. The plot worked, with no + misadventure, to a brilliant triumph. We took the wig. We enveloped him in + our sympathy. 'Search out and restore my wig,' said he, 'and you shall + have your holiday.' Then we found his wig and we enjoyed the holiday that + was our right. That is the story,” Professor Wyvern ended. + </p> + <p> + Mystification clouded George's face. He pushed out a leg, stared at the + toe. He stared at the fire; at the Professor, chuckling and rubbing his + hands, he stared. His brain twisted the story this way and that, striving + to dovetail it into his own circumstances. + </p> + <p> + In such a process the eyes are the mouth of the machine whence the + completed manufacture sends forth its sparkling. But while the mechanism + twists and turns the fabrics there is no sparkle—the eyes are + clouded in thought, as we say. + </p> + <p> + The eyes that George turned upon toe, upon fire, and upon Professor + Wyvern, were dull and lack-lustre. The machine worked unproductive; there + was a cog that required adjustment, a lever that wanted a pull. + </p> + <p> + George sought the foreman machinist; said slowly: “But I don't see how the + story helps me?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you must think over it,” Professor Wyvern told him. “I dare not + tell you any more. I must be no party to the inference that can be drawn. + But do you not see that the thing our Professor cherished most was his + wig? Now, Bill has told me that the thing your uncle cherishes above all + price is—” + </p> + <p> + Click went the machine; round buzzed the wheels; out from George's eyes + shot the sparkles. He jumped to his feet, his face red. “Is his cat!” he + cried. “His Rose of Sharon! I see it! I see it! By Gad, I'll do it! Look + here now—” + </p> + <p> + “No, I will not,” the Professor said. “I do not wish to know anything + about it. I hear my wife's step.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand. All right. But don't tell a soul—not even Bill.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot tell, because I do not know. But I suspect it is something very + funny,” and the Professor burst into a very deep “Ho! ho! ho!” + </p> + <p> + “My dearest,” said Mrs. Wyvern at the door, “whatever can you be laughing + at so loudly?” + </p> + <p> + “Ho! ho! ho! ho!” boomed the Professor, belling like a bloodhound. “It is + something very funny.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wyvern kissed the thin hairs on the top of his mighty head. “Dear + William, I do trust it was not one of those painful stories of your young + days.” + </p> + <p> + George stayed to dinner. By nine he left the house. He did not make for + home. Striking through lanes he climbed an ascending field, mounted a + stile, and here, with an unseeing eye upon Herons' Holt twinkling its + bedroom lights in the valley below, he smoked many pipes, brooding upon + his scheme. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + It was not a melancholy process. Every now and again a crack of laughter + jerked him; once he took his pipe from his mouth and put up a ringing peal + of mirth that sent a brace of bunnies, flirting near his feet, wildly + scampering for safety. Long he brooded.... + </p> + <p> + A church clock gave him eleven. At ten he had been too deeply buried. Now + his head was pushed clear from the burrow in which he had been working, + and the sound caught his attention. No light now pricked Herons' Holt upon + the dusky chart stretched beneath him. Its occupants were abed. + </p> + <p> + “I'll do it to-night!” cried George. “I'll do it at once!” + </p> + <p> + He drew on his pipe. A full cloud of smoke came. The pipe was well alight, + and caution bidding him that it were well to bide a while so that sleep + might more cosily warm the beds of the household, he determined that he + would have out his last smoke as plotter: his next would be smoked as doer + of the deed. + </p> + <p> + He rehearsed his plan. A knife would slip back the catch of the window + behind which the Rose of Sharon lay. Possessing himself of her person he + would speed to that tumbled hut in the copse. There she might lie in + safety for the night: neither hut nor copse was in any man's road. Upon + the morrow, when the hideous circumstance had been discovered, he would + bear himself as events seemed to demand. He would be boundless in his + sympathy, a leader in the search. If the idea of reward did not occur to + Mr. Marrapit, he must suggest it. Unlikely that in the first moment of + loss, when the Rose would still seem to be near, the reward would approach + the figure at which he aimed. That was for his cunning to contrive. But + obviously it would be impossible permanently to keep the Rose in the hut. + To-morrow, when pretending to search for her he could guard the place + where she lay; but he could not always be sentinel. The countryside would + be scoured; no stone left unturned, no spinney unbeaten. + </p> + <p> + As he saw the matter, the plan would be to get somewhere down the railway + line on pretext of a clue, taking the Rose of Sharon with him; for the + success of the whole scheme depended upon his concealing the cat until Mr. + Marrapit should be upon his bended knees in his distress, in deepest + despair as to the Rose's recovery, and hence would be transported to + deepest gratitude when it was restored to his arms. George told himself he + must be prepared against the eventuality of his uncle failing to offer in + public reward so large a sum as 500 pounds. That did not greatly distress. + Best indeed if that sum were offered, but, failing it, it was upon Mr. + Marrapit's gratitude that George ultimately reckoned. Surely when he + “found” the cat it would be Mr. Marrapit's natural reply to give in + exchange the sum he had that afternoon so violently refused. At the least, + he could not refuse to lend it. + </p> + <p> + Early in his brooding George had decided he must not tell his Mary. First, + it would be cruel to set her upon the rack of acting a part before Mr. + Marrapit, before the household, before every questioner she must + encounter; second—second, my ignoble George had doubts as to in what + spirit his Mary would regard this plot did he make her partner in it. That + it was wholly justifiable he personally would have contended before + archangels. This miserly uncle was keeping from him money that was as + incontestably his own as the being which also his mother had given him. + Before all the angelic host he would thus have protested-without stammer, + without blush; with the inspiration of righteousness, with the integrity + of innocence. But to protest his cause before his Mary was another matter. + There might be no occasion to protest; his Mary might see eye to eye with + him in the matter. She might; but it was an eventuality he did not care to + try against a test. His Mary was a girl—and girls are in their + conduct narrowed by scruples that do not beset men. His Mary—and + this it was that would make a test so violent—his Mary was his Mary, + and well he knew, and loved, the little heart so delicately white as + instantly to discover the finest specks of sootiness—if specks there + were—in any breeze that might cross its surface. + </p> + <p> + No, he would not tell his Mary. When the thing was done—when he, the + black-hearted rogue, had the little saint safe in the toils she would find + so delicious, then—then he would tell her, would silence her + frightened squeals—if she squealed—by his intention to pay + back the money, whether won as reward (which was improbable) or earned as + token of gratitude (which was highly likely). He had only asked to borrow, + and it should only be a loan. + </p> + <p> + Across the dark fields in spirit he kissed his little saint. ... Of course—of + course—one must admit these brutal things—of course the scheme + might fail. Anything might happen to crash it about his ears. That was a + deadly, dismal thought, but he flattened it from sight with that lusty + hammer that gay youth uses—“I shan't be any worse off if it does + fail.” + </p> + <p> + The smoke came through his pipe in burning whiffs. He shook it bowl + downwards. Ashes and sparks fell in a shower. The pipe was done. + </p> + <p> + <i>Whoop! forrard!</i> The game was afoot. + </p> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <p> + A moon as clear as that which shone when Bill stole to Herons' Holt to woo + his blessed damosel, gave a clear light to George as now he approached the + house. He took his way across the fields, and his progression was that of + no stealthy-footed conspirator. Two miles of downward-sloping land lay + between the stile whereon he had brooded and the home that his plottings + were to disturb. In buoyant spirits—for this was action, and action + makes lusty appeal to youth—he trotted or galloped as the descent + was easy or sharply inclined; the low hedges he took in great sprawling + jumps, the ditches in vast giant strides—arms working as + balance-pole, humming as he ran. + </p> + <p> + Upon the lawn he became more cautious. But the moon showed Herons' Holt + sleepy-eyed-blinds drawn. + </p> + <p> + The cats' parlour, back of the house, gave upon a little strip of turf + that kept away the kitchen garden. George drew his knife; approached the + window. Now he was a criminal indeed. + </p> + <p> + To slip the catch was easy work; between upper and lower sash there was + clear space. George inserted his pen-knife. Tip of blade grated against + catch; a little pressure—an answering movement; a little more—and, + <i>click</i>, the trick was done! + </p> + <p> + Now he raised the sash, and now he is in the room. Glimmer of a match + shows him the sleeping-baskets; its steadier flame discloses the Rose, + snugly curled, a little free of her silken coverlet. + </p> + <p> + Wake, now, Rose—as an older school of novelists would have addressed + you. Wake, Rose! Wake, pretty Rose! Queenly Rose, awake! Wake precious, + virgin Rose! Squeal! scratch! bite! Claw those wicked hands descending + into your pure bed! Spring like spotless maiden aroused to find ravisher + at her couch! Spring, Rose, spring! Squawking news of outrage to all the + house, bound wildly, Rose, about this room that else you shall not see + until through searing perils you have passed! Spring! Rose, spring! + </p> + <p> + Not Rose! + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + The ravisher's hands descended upon her person—she only purred. They + passed about her warm and exquisite form—she purred the more. They + tickled her as they laid hold—she stretched a leg; purred with + fuller note. Perchance this virgin cat dreamed of some gallant young Tom + wooing her bed; perchance these ticklings had their deliciously + transfigured place in her visions; perchance—she only purred. + </p> + <p> + Now George tucked her beneath his arm. Legs dangled wretchedly; gallant + young Tom leapt from her dreams and she awoke. She stirred. George had a + foot upon the window-sill, and the night air ruffled her downy coat. She + was pressed against bony ribs; a rough arm squeezed her wretchedly; long, + poky fingers tortured her flank; her legs draggled dismally. She voiced + protest in a plaintive, piercing, long-drawn <i>“Mi-aow!”</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Clout!</i> + </p> + <p> + Ah, Rose! Pretty, foolish Rose—as our older school again would have + written—why did you entertain sensuous dreams when you should have + been stirring? + </p> + <p> + <i>“Mi-aow!”</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Clout!</i> + </p> + <p> + Too late, Rose! Too late! That beauteous head—that prize-winning + head which from kittenhood upwards has known none other than caress, is + now a mark for battering bumps if you do but open those perfect jaws—those + prize-winning jaws. Too late, Rose! Too late! Do not cry now, Rose! The + ravisher has you. His blood congeals in terror at your plaintive cry. In + his brutish panic he will answer it with thuds. Too late, Rose! Too late! + </p> + <p> + “<i>Mi-aow!</i>” + </p> + <p> + <i>Clout!</i> + </p> + <p> + Ah, Rose, Rose! + </p> + <p> + He is outside now. “Shut up, you fat idiot!” he hisses. Squeezing her yet + more villainously with one arm, with the other he draws down the sash. + Through the gate, into the lane, over the stream, down the ride, into the + copse—up to the hut. + </p> + <p> + The outer door hangs grinningly upon its hinges. The door going to the + inner room has a working latch; George kicks it open; elbows it to behind + him; drops the Rose with jarring plump; strikes a match. There is the + dusty pile of Old Tom bottles, there the little heap of bracken upon which + Mrs. Major doubtless had reclined while with Old Tom she talked. + Excellent! + </p> + <p> + The match goes out. He lights another. The Rose is standing forlornly at + his feet. While the match lasts he lifts her to the bracken bed; presses + her down; backs out; closes the door. + </p> + <p> + His watch, put beneath the moon, tells him it is upon one o'clock. He + pulls to the outer door; wedges beneath it a stump of wood that keeps it + firmly shut; makes for home. + </p> + <p> + In an hour he is sleeping the dreamless, childlike slumber that comes to + those who, setting their hand to the plough, have manfully laboured a full + day's work. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> + <h3> + Horror At Herons' Holt. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + Sleep does not necessarily shun the bed of the wicked. She is a wanton + mistress, and will cuddle where her fancy chances, careless whether vice + or virtue is her bedfellow; coy when most eagerly supplicated, seductive + when least desired. + </p> + <p> + George, steeped in crime, snuggled warmly to her until aroused by a rude + shaking. + </p> + <p> + Night-capped and dressing-gowned, white-faced and trembling, awful in + grief Mr. Marrapit stood near him. + </p> + <p> + “Get up! The Rose of Sharon is lost.” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible!” + </p> + <p> + “I tell you it is so. Up!” + </p> + <p> + George pushed a shaking leg out of bed. He was had unawares. As a sleeper + pitched sleeping into the sea, so from unconsciousness he was hurled plump + into the whirlpool of events. And as the sleeper thus immersed would gulp + and sink and kick, so now he blinked, shivered, and gasped. + </p> + <p> + He repeated: “Impossible!” + </p> + <p> + “I tell you it is so. I have eyes; I have been to her room.” Mr. + Marrapit's voice rose in a wailing cry. “I have been to her room. Gone! + Gone!” + </p> + <p> + George put out the other leg—crime-steeped legs that quivered. He + had looked for a space between awaking and meeting his uncle in which to + prepare his plans, rehearse his words. This abrupt rousing stampeded his + senses. He quavered “Wher—where can she be?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit flung up his arms. “Oh, my God! If I knew that would I be + here? Up! Up! Join the searchers in the garden.” + </p> + <p> + George pushed a criminal leg into his trousers. Conscience made thumbs of + his fingers, trembled his joints. He hopped frantically, thrusting with + the other foot. + </p> + <p> + “Dance!” Mr. Marrapit moaned bitterly. “Dance! That is right! Why do you + not sing also? This is nothing to you! Dance on! Dance on!” + </p> + <p> + George cannoned the wash-stand. “It <i>is</i> something to me. I can + hardly believe it!” + </p> + <p> + “Is sorrow expressed in a gavotte? Grief in a hornpipe?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not dancing. My damned bags are stuck!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit wrung his hands. “Discard them! Discard them! Must decency + imperil the Rose?” + </p> + <p> + With a tremendous kick George thrust in past the obstruction. + </p> + <p> + “They're on now—my slippers—coat—what shall I do?” + </p> + <p> + “Join the searchers. Scour the grounds. Search every shrub. Climb every + tree.” + </p> + <p> + The agonised man led downstairs. “I found the window open,” he moaned. + “Night by night, year in year out, I have shut it. Impossible that I + forgot. If I forgot, the Rose is in the garden or in the vicinity. If I + did not forget, the window was forced—the Rose was stolen. A + detective shall decide.” + </p> + <p> + George grew quite cold. Employment of a detective had not occurred to him. + They were at the front door. He put a hand on Mr. Marrapit's arm. “Oh, not + a detective. Don't get a detective.” + </p> + <p> + “If need be I will get forty detectives. I will blacken the countryside + with detectives.” + </p> + <p> + George grew quite hot. “Uncle, let us keep this private. Leave it with me. + Rely on me. I will find your cat.” + </p> + <p> + “Into the garden,” cried Mr. Marrapit. “Join the searchers. They have + failed once. Lead, animate, encourage.” + </p> + <p> + “And you won't get a detective?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit did not reply. He had opened the hall door; Mr. Fletcher in + the middle distance approached moodily. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit thrust out a hand. “Back! Back!” he cried hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + Wearily Mr. Fletcher gave answer. “It's no use, Mr. Marrapit. It's no good + saying 'back.' I've been back. I've been back and I've been front and I've + been both sides. I've looked here, I've looked there; I've looked up, I've + looked down. I'm giddy with looking.” He approached; stood before them. + Woe heavily draped herself about this man. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, easily discouraged!” Mr. Marrapit cried. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, infirm of purpose! Back, faint-heart! Do not say die.” + </p> + <p> + Faint-heart mopped a streaming brow. “But I do say die. I do say die, Mr. + Marrapit, and I damn well shall die if I go creepin' and crawlin' and + hissin' much longer. It's 'ard—damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; not + a cobra.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit slammed the door. George hurried out of sight; in the kitchen + garden sat down to think. He was frightened. Thus far the plot had not + worked well. Detectives! + </p> + <p> + He gave an hour to the search he was ostensibly conducting; when he again + entered the house was more easy-minded. Employed in meditation that hour + gave him back his coolness of the night. Rudely awakened, given no time in + which firmly to plant his feet, securely to get a purchase with his hands + before the storm burst, he had been whirled along helpless and bewildered + before Mr. Marrapit's gusty agony. Instead of resisting the torrent, + directing its course, he had been caught where it surged fiercest, hurled + down-stream. In the vulgar simile of his reflections he was rotting the + whole show. + </p> + <p> + But now he had steadied himself. He girded his loins against the part he + had to play; with new determination and confidence entered the house. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + There was no breakfast at Herons' Holt that morning. When George, dressed, + bathed and shaved, sought out his uncle, it was to find Mr. Marrapit in + the study. + </p> + <p> + The distracted man was pacing the floor, a closely written sheet of paper + in his hands. He turned upon George. + </p> + <p> + “In the hour of my travail I am also beneath the burden of earlier griefs. + Yesterday a disastrous scene took place between us. Oaths rasped from your + lips.” + </p> + <p> + “Forget that, sir. Forget it.” + </p> + <p> + “That is my desire. Misery wails through the corridors. In her presence + let us bury private differences. In this appalling catastrophe every help + is required. You have youth, manhood; you should be invaluable.” + </p> + <p> + George declared: “I mean to be. I will not rest until the Rose is + restored.” + </p> + <p> + This was perfectly true, as he was to discover. + </p> + <p> + “Commendable,” Mr. Marrapit pronounced. Now that this volunteer was + enlisted, Mr. Marrapit discarded supplication, resumed mastery. “While you + have searched,” he said, “I have schemed.” He indicated the paper he + carried. “These are my plans. Peruse them.” + </p> + <p> + George read; returned the paper. “If these arrangements do not restore the + Rose,” he declared, “nothing will. I see you do not mention my name. I + fear you doubted my assistance. I think I will join the—the——“—he + glanced at the paper—“the <i>extra-mural</i> searchers. I know the + countryside well. I can go far and fast.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit agreed. “Summon the household,” he commanded. + </p> + <p> + George called Margaret; the two carried out the order. + </p> + <p> + In a semicircle the household grouped about their master; from Mrs. + Armitage at the one horn to George at the other they took their places—Mrs. + Armitage, Clara, Ada, Mr. Fletcher, Frederick, Mary, Margaret, George. + </p> + <p> + Paper in hand Mr. Marrapit regarded them. He pointed at Frederick. + </p> + <p> + “That boy is sucking a disgusting peppermint. Disgorge.” + </p> + <p> + Glad of relief, all eyes went upon the infamous youth. He purpled, + struggled, gulped, swallowed—from his eyes tears streamed. + </p> + <p> + “Stiffneck!” Mr. Marrapit thundered. “Disgorge, I said. You are controlled + by appetite; your belly is your god.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I ain't 'ad no breakfast,” Stiffneck answered fiercely. Like Miss + Porter upon a similar occasion this boy was in great pain. + </p> + <p> + “And no breakfast shall you have until the Rose is restored. Heartless! + How can you eat while she, perhaps, does starve?” The angry man addressed + the group. “These are the plans for her recovery. Give ear. You, vile boy, + will rush to the dairy and order to be sent at once as much milk as Mrs. + Armitage will command you. Mrs. Armitage, you with your maids—Fletcher, + you with that boy, are the <i>intramural</i> workers, the workers within + the walls. George, Margaret, Miss Humfray—<i>extra-mural</i>. Mrs. + Armitage, with milk let every bowl and saucer be filled. Fletcher, at + intervals of thirty feet along the wall let these be placed. If our + wanderer is near she will be attracted. Margaret, with Miss Humfray to the + village. Collect an army of village boys. Describe our Rose. Set them to + scour the countryside for her. Yourselves join that search. Let the call + of 'Rose! Rose!' echo through every lane. George, you also will scour far + and wide. Upon your way despatch to me a cab from the station. I drive to + the post-office to telephone for a detective. I have not yet decided which + detective. It is a momentous matter.” He flung out both hands. “To your + tasks! Let zeal, let love for our lost one spur each to outvie the efforts + of another. Fletcher, raise the window. That pungent boy has poisoned the + air.” + </p> + <p> + They trooped from him. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <h3> + A Detective At Herons' Holt. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + Bolt Buildings, Westminster, is a colossal red structure reared upon the + site of frightened-looking little houses which fell beneath the breaker's + hammer coincident with the falling in of their lease. Here you may have a + complete floor of rooms at from three to five hundred a year; or, high + under the roof, you may rent a single room for forty-five pounds. + </p> + <p> + Mr. David Brunger, Private Detective and Confidential Inquiry Agent, + appeared on the books of the Bolt Buildings management as lessee of one of + these single rooms. The appearance of his quarters as presented to the + visitor had, however, a more pretentious aspect. + </p> + <p> + Shot to the topmost floor in the electric lift, passing to the left and up + five stairs in accordance with the lift boy's instructions, the intending + client would be faced by three doors. Upon the first was inscribed: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DAVID BRUNGER (Clerks). +</pre> + <p> + Upon the middle door: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DAVID BRUNGER (Private). +</pre> + <p> + And upon the third: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DAVID BRUNGER (Office). +</pre> + <p> + These signs of large staff and flourishing business were in keeping with + the telling advertisements which Mr. David Brunger from time to time + caused to appear in the Press. + </p> + <p> + “Watch your wife,” said these advertisements, adding in smaller type that + had the appearance of a whisper: “David Brunger will watch her.” “What + keeps your husband late at office?” they continued. “David Brunger will + find out. Confidential inquiry of every description promptly and cheaply + carried out by David Brunger's large staff of skilled detectives (male and + female). David Brunger has never failed. David Brunger has restored + thousands of pounds' worth of stolen property, countless missing + relatives. David Brunger, 7 Bolt Buildings, Strange Street, S.W. Tel. 0000 + West.” + </p> + <p> + In London, with its myriad little eddies of crime and matrimonial + infelicity, there is a neat sum to be made out of detective work. Scotland + Yard wolfs the greater part of these opportunities; there are established + names that absorb much of the remainder. In the surplus, however, there is + still a livelihood for the David Brungers. For if the Brungers do not go + nosing after silken petticoats covering aristocratic but wanton legs; if + the Brungers do not go flying across the Continent, nose to ground, + notebook in hand, after the fine linen worn by my lord who is making + holiday with something fair and frail under the quiet name of Mr. and Mrs. + Brown; if the Brungers are not employed to draggle silken petticoats and + fine linen through the Divorce Court, there is work for them among humbler + washing baskets. Jealous little shop-keepers have erring little wives, and + common little wives have naughty little husbands: these come to your + Brungers. And if, again, the Brungers do not dog the footsteps of your + fifty-thousand-pound men, your embezzlement-over-a-period-of-ten-years + men, your cheque-forging men—if the Brungers are invited to do no + dogging after these, there are pickings for them in less flashy crimes. + Hiding in cupboard work while the sweated little shop-assistant slips a + marked shilling from the till, hiding in basement work while a trembling + little figure creeps down and pilfers the stock—these are the pranks + that come to your Brungers. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + While Mr. Marrapit at Herons' Holt was addressing to his household grouped + about him his orders relative to the search for the Rose of Sharon, Mr. + David Brunger at Bolt Buildings was entering the door marked “DAVID + BRUNGER (Private).” + </p> + <p> + A telephone, a gas stove, a roll-top desk, an office chair, an armchair, a + tiny deal table and a wooden-seated chair comprised the furniture of the + apartment. + </p> + <p> + “For myself, I like severity and simplicity of surroundings,” Mr. David + Brunger in the office chair would tell a client in the armchair. “For <i>myself</i>—” + and he would waggle his head towards the side walls with an air that + seemed to imply prodigal luxury in the fittings of “(Clerks)” and + “(Office).” + </p> + <p> + Entering the room Mr. Brunger unlocked the roll-top desk; discovered the + stump of a half-smoked cigarette; lit it and began to compare the day's + racing selections of “Head Lad,” who imparted stable secrets to one + tipster's organ, with those of “Trainer,” who from the knowledge of his + position very kindly gave one horse snips to another. + </p> + <p> + At ten o'clock the large staff of trained detectives (male and female), + mentioned in Mr. Brunger's advertisements, came pouring up the stairs, + knocked at the door and filed into the room. Its name was Issy Jago, a + Jewish young gentleman aged seventeen, whose appearance testified in the + highest manner to the considerable thrift he exercised in the matter of + hair-dressers and toilet soap. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Issy Jago sat himself on the wooden-seated chair before the small deal + table; got to work upon his finger-nails with the corner of an omnibus + ticket; proceeded to study the police court reports in the <i>Daily + Telegraph</i>. + </p> + <p> + It was his duty, whenever he noted plaintiffs or defendants to whom Mr. + David Brunger's services might be of benefit, to post to them Mr. David + Brunger's card together with a selection of entirely unsolicited + testimonials composed and dictated by Mr. Brunger for the occasion. + </p> + <p> + Also his duty to receive clients. + </p> + <p> + When a knock was heard at “DAVID BRUNGER (Clerks)” Mr. Issy Jago would + slip through from “DAVID BRUNGER (Private)” to the tiny closet containing + the cistern into which the door marked “DAVID BRUNGER (Clerks)” opened. + Sliding through this door in such a manner as to give the client no + glimpse of the interior, he would inform the visitor, with a confidential + wink, “Fact is we have a client in there—a very well-known personage + who does not wish it to be known that he is consulting us.” The impressed + caller would then be conducted into “DAVID BEUNGER (Private).” + </p> + <p> + Between “DAVID BRUNGER (Private)” and “DAVID BRUNGER (Office),” on the + other hand, there was no communication. Indeed there was no room behind + “(Office)”: the door gave on to the roof. When, therefore, a hesitating + client chose to knock at “(Office)” Mr. Issy Jago, emerging from + “(Private),” would give the whispered information: “Fact is there's a very + important private consultation going on in there—Scotland Yard + consulting us.” And the impressed client would forthwith be led into + “DAVID BRUNGER (Private).” + </p> + <p> + In either event, the client trapped, Mr. Issy Jago would skip into + “(Clerks)” and sit on the cistern till Mr. Brunger's bell summoned him. + </p> + <p> + For the privilege of adding to the dignity of his single apartment by + having his name inscribed upon the cistern cupboard and upon the emergency + exit to the roof, Mr. Brunger paid thirty shillings extra per annum. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + By half-past ten Mr. Brunger was occupied in composing an unsolicited + testimonial to be sent to the wife of a green-grocer in the Borough who, + on the previous day, had summoned her husband for assault at Lambeth + Police-Court. + </p> + <p> + “I had suspicions but no proof of my 'usband's infidelity,” dictated Mr. + Brunger, pacing the floor, “until I enlisted your services. I must say—” + </p> + <p> + At that moment the telephone bell rang. Mr. Brunger ceased dictation; took + up the receiver. + </p> + <p> + “Are you David Brunger, the private detective?” a voice asked. + </p> + <p> + “We are,” replied Mr. Brunger in the thin treble he used on first + answering a call. “Who are you, please?” + </p> + <p> + “I am Mr. Christopher Marrapit of Herons' Holt, Paltley Hill, Surrey. I—” + </p> + <p> + “One moment,” piped Mr. Brunger. “Is it confidential business?” + </p> + <p> + “It is most urgent business. I—” + </p> + <p> + “One moment, please. In that case the private secretary must take your + message.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Brunger laid down the receiver; took a turn across the room; + approached the telephone; in a very deep bass asked, “Are you there?” + </p> + <p> + The frantic narrative that was poured into his ears he punctuated with + heavy, guttural “Certainly's,” “Yes's,” “We comprehend's,” “We follow + you's.” Then: “Mr. David Brunger himself? I'm afraid that is impossible, + sir. Mr. Brunger has his hands very full just now. He is closeted with + Scotland Yard. At this moment, sir, the Yard is consulting him ...'m...'m. + Well, I'll see, sir, I'll see. I doubt it. I very much doubt it. But hold + the line a minute, sir.” + </p> + <p> + In his capacity of Mr. David Brunger's private secretary, Mr. David + Brunger drank from the carafe of water on the mantelpiece to clear his + tortured throat. + </p> + <p> + In his capacity of the great detective and confidential inquiry agent + himself, he then stepped to the telephone and, after exhibiting a power of + invention relative to startling crimes in hand that won even the + admiration of Mr. Issy Jago, announced that he would be with Mr. Marrapit + at three o'clock. + </p> + <p> + “It may be a big job, Issy,” he remarked, relighting the stump of + cigarette, “or it may be a little job. But what I say and what I do is, <i>impress + your client. Impress your client,</i> Issy. Let that be your maxim through + life. And if I catch you again takin' a draw at my cigarette when my + back's turned, as I see you just now, I'll damn well turn you inside out + and chuck you through that door. So you watch it. You've made this smoke + taste 'orrid-'orrid. No sauce, now; no sauce.” + </p> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <p> + By two o'clock the results of Mr. Marrapit's colossal scheme began to pour + in. + </p> + <p> + The bowls of milk, gleaming along the wall of Herons' Holt, drew every + stray cat within a radius of two miles. Beneath, each armed with a + clothes-prop, toiled Mr. Fletcher and Frederick under the immediate + generalship of Mr. Marrapit. + </p> + <p> + Throughout the morning cats bounded, flickered and disappeared upon the + wall. Fat cats, thin cats; tom cats, tabby cats; white cats, black cats, + yellow cats, and grey cats; young cats and old cats. As each appeared, Mr. + Marrapit, first expectant then moaning, would wave his assistants to the + assault. Up would go the clothes-prop of Mr. Fletcher or Frederick; down + would go the stranger cat. It was exhausting work. + </p> + <p> + At two-thirty the village boys who had been searching were mustered at the + gate. Each bore a cat. Some carried two. Leaving his clothes-prop lancers, + Mr. Marrapit hurried down the drive to hold review. + </p> + <p> + “Pass,” he commanded, “in single file before me.” + </p> + <p> + They passed. “Dolt! Dolt!” groaned Mr. Marrapit, writhing in the + bitterness of crushed hope as each cat was held towards him. “Dolt and + pumpkin-head! How could that wretched creature be my Rose?” + </p> + <p> + How, indeed, when at that moment the Rose of Sharon in the ruined hut was + lapping milk taken her by George in a lemonade bottle, her infamous captor + smoking on the threshold? + </p> + <p> + Precisely at three o'clock Mr. David Brunger arrived. Conducted to the + room whence the Rose had disappeared, the astute inquiry agent was there + closeted with Mr. Marrapit for half an hour. At the end of that time Mr. + Marrapit appeared on the lawn. His face was white, his voice, when he + spoke, hollow and trembling. He called to the clothes-prop lancers: + </p> + <p> + “Cease. Cease. Withdraw the milk. The Rose of Sharon is not strayed. She + is stolen!” + </p> + <p> + “Thenk Gord!” said Frederick. “Thenk Gord! I've pretty well busted myself + over this game.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Fletcher said nothing; drew his snail from his pocket; plunged head + downwards in a bush. Woe sat heavy upon him; beneath the indignity and + labour of thrusting at stranger cats with a clothes-prop this man had + grievously suffered. + </p> + <h3> + V. + </h3> + <p> + The Rose was stolen. That was Mr. Brunger's discovery after examination of + the window-latch where George's knife had marked it, the sill where + George's boots had scratched it. Outside the great detective searched for + footmarks—they had been obliterated by heavy rainfall between the + doing of the hideous deed and its discovery. Upon the principle of + impressing his client, however, Mr. Brunger grovelled on the path with + tape measure and note-book; measured every pair of boots in the house; + measured the window; measured the room; in neat little packets tied up + specimens of the gravel, specimens of the turf, specimens of hair from the + Rose of Sharon's coat, picked from her bed. + </p> + <p> + It was six o'clock when he had concluded. By then George had returned; the + three held council in the study. Addressing Mr. Marrapit, Mr. Brunger + tapped his note-book and his little packages. “We shall track the culprit, + never fear, Mr. Marrapit,” he said. “My impression is that this is the + work of a gang—a <i>gang</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely my impression,” George agreed. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Brunger took the interruption with the gracious bow of one who + condescends to accept a pat on the back from an inferior. Mr. Marrapit + twisted his fingers in his thin hair; groaned aloud. + </p> + <p> + “A <i>gang,</i>” repeated Mr. Brunger, immensely relishing the word. “We + detectives do not like to speak with certainty until we have clapped our + hands upon our men; we leave that for the amateurs, the bunglers—the + <i>quacks</i> of our profession.” The famous confidential inquiry agent + tapped the table with his forefinger and proceeded impressively. “But I + will say this much. Not only a gang, but a desperate gang, a dangerous, + stick-at-nothing gang.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit writhed. The detective continued: “What are our grounds for + this belief?” he asked. “What are our <i>data</i>?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at George. George shook his head. Easy enough, and useful, to + acquiesce in the idea of a gang, but uncommonly hard to support the + belief. He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Brunger was disappointed; a little at sea, he would have clutched + eagerly at any aid. However, “impress your client.” He continued: “These + are our data. We have a valuable cat—a cat, sir, upon which the eyes + of cat-breeders are enviously fixed. Take America—you have had + surprising offers from America for this cat, sir, so you told me?” + </p> + <p> + “Eight hundred pounds,” Mr. Marrapit groaned. + </p> + <p> + “Precisely. Observe how our data accumulate. We have dissatisfaction among + breeders at home because you will not employ this cat as, in their + opinion, for the good of the breed, she should be employed.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit moaned: “Polygamy is abhorrent to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely. Our data positively pile about us. We have a thousand + enthusiasts yearning for this cat. We have your refusal to sell or to—to—” + Mr. Brunger allowed a hiatus delicately to express his meaning. “Then + depend upon it, sir, we have a determination to secure this cat by foul + means since fair will not avail. We have a conspiracy among unscrupulous + breeders to obtain this valuable cat, and hence, sir, we have a gang—a + <i>gang</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit put his anguish of mind into two very deep groans. + </p> + <p> + “Keep calm, my dear sir,” Mr. Brunger soothed. “We shall return your cat. + We have our data.” He continued: “Now, sir, there are two ways of dealing + with a <i>gang</i>. We can capture the <i>gang</i> or we can seduce the <i>gang</i>—by + offering a reward.” + </p> + <p> + George jumped in his chair. “Anything wrong?” Mr. Brunger inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Your—your extraordinary grasp of the case astonishes me,” George + exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Experience, sir, experience,” said Mr. Brunger airily. Addressing Mr. + Marrapit, “We must put both methods to work,” he continued. “I shall now + go to town, look up the chief breeders and set members of my trained staff + to track them. Also I must advertise this reward. With a cat of such value + we cannot use half measures. Shall we say one hundred pounds to start + with?” + </p> + <p> + “Barley water!” gasped Mr. Marrapit. “Barley water!” + </p> + <p> + George sprang to the sideboard where always stood a jug of Mr. Marrapit's + favourite refreshment. Mr. Marrapit drank, agitation rattling the glass + against his teeth. + </p> + <p> + “Think what it means to you, sir,” persuaded Mr. Brunger, a little alarmed + at the effects of his proposal. + </p> + <p> + The detective's tone had a very earnest note, for he was thinking with + considerable gratification what the hundred pounds would mean to himself. + On previous occasions he had urged rewards from his clients, put Mr. Issy + Jago in the way of securing them, and paid that gentleman a percentage. + </p> + <p> + “Think what it means to you,” he repeated. “What is a hundred pounds or + thrice that sum against the restoration of your cat? Come, what is it, + sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Ruin,” answered Mr. Marrapit, gulping barley water. “Ruin.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Brunger urged gravely: “Oh, don't say that, sir. Think what our dumb + pets are to us. I've got a blood-'ound at home myself that I'd give my + life for if I lost—gladly. Surely they're more to us, our faithful + friends, than mere—mere—” + </p> + <p> + “Pelf,” supplied George, on a thin squeak that was shot out by the + excitement of seeing events so lustily playing his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Mere pelf,” adopted Mr. Brunger. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit gulped heavily at the barley water; set his gaze upon a + life-size portrait in oils of his darling Rose; with fine calm announced: + “If it must be, it must be.” + </p> + <p> + With masterly celerity Mr. Brunger drew forward pen and paper; scribbled; + in three minutes had Mr. Marrapit's signed authority to offer one hundred + pounds reward. + </p> + <p> + He put the document in his pocket; took up his hat. “To-morrow,” he said + after farewells, “I or one of my staff will return to scour the immediate + neighbourhood. It has been done, you tell me, but only by amateurs. The + skilled detective, sir, will see a needle where the amateur cannot discern + a haystack.” + </p> + <h3> + VI. + </h3> + <p> + He was gone. His last words had considerably alarmed George. No time was + to be lost. All was working with a magic expediency, but the Rose must not + be risked in the vicinity of one of these needle-observing detectives. She + must be hurried away. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle,” George said, “I did not say it while the detective was here—I + do not wish to raise your hopes; but I believe I have a clue. Do not + question me,” he added, raising a hand in terror lest Mr. Marrapit should + begin examination. “I promise nothing. My ideas may be wholly imaginary. + But I believe—I believe—oh, I believe I have a clue.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit rushed for the bell. “Recall the detective! You should have + spoken. I will send Fletcher in pursuit.” + </p> + <p> + George seized his uncle's arm. “On no account. That is why I did not speak + before. I am convinced I can do better alone.” + </p> + <p> + “You do not convince me. You are an amateur. We must have the skilled + mind. Let me ring.” + </p> + <p> + George was in terror. “No, no; do you not see it may be waste of time? Let + me at least make sure, then I will tell the detective. Meanwhile let him + pursue other clues. Why send the trained mind on what may be a + goose-chase?” + </p> + <p> + The argument had effect. Mr. Marrapit dropped into a chair. + </p> + <p> + George explained. To follow the clue necessitated, he said, instant + departure—by train. He would write fullest details; would wire from + time to time if necessary. His uncle must trust him implicitly. The + detective must not be told until he gave the word. + </p> + <p> + Eager to clutch at any hope, Mr. Marrapit clutched at this. George was + given money for expenses; at eight o'clock left the house. There had been + no opportunity for words with his Mary. She did not even know that Mr. + Marrapit had refused the money that was to mean marriage and Runnygate; + she had not even danced with her George upon his success in his + examination. Leaving the household upon his desperate clue, George could + do no more than before them all bid her formal farewell. At half-past + eight he is cramming the peerless Rose of Sharon into a basket taken from + Mr. Fletcher's outhouses; at nine the villain is tramping the railway + platform, in agony lest his burden shall mi-aow; at ten the monster is at + Dippleford Admiral; at eleven the traitor is asleep in the bedroom of an + inn, the agitated Rose uneasily slumbering upon his bed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> + <h3> + Terror At Dippleford Admiral. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + “Impress your client,” was the maxim of Mr. David Brunger. “Make a splash + and keep splashing,” was that of Mr. Henry T. Bitt, editor of Fleet + Street's new organ, the <i>Daily</i>. + </p> + <p> + Muddy pools were Mr. Bitt's speciality. His idea of the greatest possible + splash was some stream, pure and beautiful to the casual eye, into which + he could force his young men and set them trampling the bottom till the + thick, unpleasant mud came clouding up whence it had long lain + unsuspected. There was his splash, and then he would start to keep + splashing. By every art and device the pool would be flogged till the + muddy water went flying broadcast, staining this, that, and the other fair + name to the nasty delight of Mr. Bitt's readers. Scandal was Mr. Bitt's + chief quest. Army scandal, navy scandal, political scandal, social scandal—these + were the courses that Mr. Bitt continuously strove to serve up to his + readers. Failing them—if disappointingly in evidence on every side + was the integrity and the honour for which Mr. Bitt raved and bawled when + in the thick of splashing a muddy pool,—then, argued Mr. Bitt, catch + hold of something trivial and splash it, flog it, placard it, into a + sensational and semi-mysterious bait that would set the halfpennies rising + like trout in an evening stream. + </p> + <p> + Bringing these principles-indeed they won him his appointment—to the + editorship of the <i>Daily</i>, Mr. Bitt was set moody and irritable by + the fact that he had no opportunity to exercise them over the first issue + of the paper. + </p> + <p> + But while preparing for press upon the second night the chance came. There + was no scandal, no effective news; but there was matter for a sensational, + semi-mysterious “leading story” in a tiny little scrap of news dictated by + Mr. David Brunger, laboriously copied out a dozen times by Mr. Issy Jago + and left by that gentleman at the offices of as many newspapers. + </p> + <p> + Seven sub-editors “spiked” it, three made of it a “fill-par.,” one gave it + a headline and sent it up as an eight-line “news-par.”; one, in the + offices of the <i>Daily</i>, read it, laughed; spoke to the news-editor; + finally carried it up to Mr. Bitt. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bitt's journalistic nose gave one sniff. The thing was done. Some old + idiot was actually offering the ridiculously large sum of one hundred + pounds for the recovery of a cat. Here, out of the barren, un-newsy world, + suddenly had sprung a seed that should grow to a forest. The very thing. + The <i>Daily</i> was saved. + </p> + <p> + Away sped a reporter; and upon the following morning, bawling from the + leading position of the principal page of the <i>Daily</i>, introducing a + column and a quarter of leaded type, these headlines appeared: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + COUNTRY HOUSE OUTRAGE. + + VALUABLE CAT STOLEN. + + SENSATIONAL STORY. + + HUGE REWARD. + + CHANCE FOR AMATEUR DETECTIVES. +</pre> + <p> + All out of Mr. Issy Jago's tiny little paragraph. + </p> + <p> + <i>Daily</i> readers revelled in it. It appeared that a gang of between + five and a dozen men had surrounded the lonely but picturesque and + beautiful country residence of Mr. Christopher Marrapit at Herons' Holt, + Paltley Hill, Surrey. Mr. Marrapit was an immensely wealthy retired + merchant now leading a secluded life in the evening of his days. First + among the costly art and other treasures of his house he placed a + magnificent orange cat, “The Rose of Sharon,” a winner whenever exhibited. + The gang, bursting their way into the house, had stolen this cat, despite + Mr. Marrapit's heroic defence, leaving the unfortunate gentleman senseless + and bleeding on the hearth-rug. Mr. Marrapit had offered 100 pounds reward + for the recovery of his pet; and the <i>Daily</i>, under the heading + “Catchy Clues,” proceeded to tell its readers all over the country how + best they might win this sum. + </p> + <p> + All out of Mr. Issy Jago's tiny little paragraph. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + <i>Daily</i> readers revelled in it. Upon three of their number it had a + particular effect. + </p> + <p> + Bill Wyvern had not been at the <i>Daily</i> office that night. Employed + during the day, he had finished his work at six; after a gloomy meal had + gone gloomily to bed. This man was on probation. His appointment to a + permanent post depended upon his in some way distinguishing himself; and + thus far, as, miserable, he reflected, he utterly had failed. The “copy” + he had done for the first issue of the <i>Daily</i> had not been used; on + this day he had been sent upon an interview and had obtained from his + subject a wretched dozen words. These he had taken to the news-editor; and + the news-editor had treated them and him with contempt. + </p> + <p> + “But that's all he would say,” poor Bill had expostulated. + </p> + <p> + “All he would say!” the news-editor sneered. “Here, Mathers, take this + stuff and make a quarter-col. interview out of it.” + </p> + <p> + Thus it was in depressed mood that Bill on the following morning opened + his <i>Daily.</i> + </p> + <p> + The flaring “Country House Outrage” hit his eye; he read; in two minutes + his mood was changed. A sensation at Paltley Hill! At Mr. Marrapit's! Here + was his chance! Who better fitted than he to work up this story? + Fortunately he knew Mr. Henry T. Bitt's private address; had the good + sense to go straight to his chief. + </p> + <p> + A cab took him to the editor's flat in Victoria Street. Mr. Bitt was + equally enthusiastic. + </p> + <p> + “Hot stuff,” said Mr. Bitt. “You've got your chance; make a splash. Go to + the office and tell Lang I've put you on to it. Cut away down to the scene + of the outrage and stay there as our Special Commissioner till I wire you + back. Serve it up hot. Make clues if you can't find 'em. Hot, mind. + H-O-T.” + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + Professor Wyvern was the second reader upon whom the sensational story had + particular effect. + </p> + <p> + Through breakfast the Professor eyed with loving eagerness the copy of the + <i>Daily</i> that lay folded beside his plate. + </p> + <p> + At intervals, “I have made a very good breakfast, now,” he would say. “Now + I will try to find what Bill has written in this terrible paper.” + </p> + <p> + But thrice Mrs. Wyvern lovingly checked him. “Dear William, no. You have + hardly touched your sole. You must finish it, dear, every scrap, before + you look at the paper. You have been eating such good breakfasts lately. + Now, please, William, finish it first.” + </p> + <p> + “It is as big as a shark,” the Professor grumbles, making shots with his + trembling fork. + </p> + <p> + “Dear William, it is a very small sole.” + </p> + <p> + At last he has finished. A line catches his eye as he unfolds the <i>Daily</i>, + and he chuckles: “Oh, dear! This is a very horrible paper. 'Actress and + Stockbroker—Piccadilly by night.'” + </p> + <p> + “Dear William, we only want to read what Bill has written. An interview, + he tells us, with—” + </p> + <p> + Dear William waggles his naughty old head over the actress and the + stockbroker; shaky fingers unfold the centre pages; nose runs up one + column and down another, then suddenly starts back burnt by the flaring + “Country House Outrage.” + </p> + <p> + “Dearest! Dearest! Whatever is the matter?” + </p> + <p> + But dearest is speechless. Dearest can only cough and choke and splutter + in convulsions of mirth over some terrific joke of which he will tell Mrs. + Wyvern no more than: “He has done it. Oh, dear! oh, dear! He has done it. + Oh, dear! This will be very funny indeed!” + </p> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <p> + It will be seen that two out of the three readers particularly interested + in Mr. Bitt's splash were agreeably interested. Upon the third the effect + was different. + </p> + <p> + It was George's first morning in the little inn at Dippleford Admiral. An + unaccustomed weight upon his legs, at which thrice he sleepily kicked + without ridding himself of it, at length awoke him. + </p> + <p> + He found the morning well advanced; the disturbing weight that had + oppressed him he saw to be a hairy object, orange of hue. Immediately his + drowsy senses awoke; took grip of events; sleep fled. This object was the + Rose of Sharon, and at once George became actively astir to the surgings + of yesterday, the mysteries of the future. + </p> + <p> + Pondering upon them, he was disturbed by a knock that heralded a voice: + “The paper you ordered, mister; and when'll you be ready for breakfast?” + </p> + <p> + “Twenty minutes,” George replied; remembered the landlady had overnight + told him she was a little deaf; on a louder note bawled: “Twenty minutes, + Mrs. Pinner!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pinner, after hesitation, remarked: “Ready now? Very well, mister”; + pushed a newspaper beneath the door; shuffled down the stairs. + </p> + <p> + In the course of his brief negotiations with Mrs. Pinner upon the previous + evening, George, in response to the proud information that the paper-boy + arrived at nine o'clock every morning on a motor bicycle, had bellowed + that he would have the <i>Daily</i>. For old Bill's sake he had ordered + it; with friendly curiosity to see Bill's new associations he now withdrew + his legs from beneath the Rose of Sharon; hopped out of bed; opened the + paper. + </p> + <p> + Upon “Country House Outrage” George alighted plump; with goggle eyes, + scalp creeping, blood freezing, read through to the last “Catchy Clue”; + aghast sank upon his bed. + </p> + <p> + It had got into the papers! Among all difficult eventualities against + which he had made plans this had never found place. It had got into the + papers! The cat's abduction was, or soon would be, in the knowledge of + everyone. This infernal reward which with huge joy he had heard offered, + was now become the goad that would prick into active search for the Rose + every man, woman, or child who read the story. It had got into the papers! + He was a felon now; fleeing justice; every hand against him. Discovery + looked certain, and what did discovery mean? Discovery meant not only loss + of the enormous stake for which he was playing—his darling Mary,—but + it meant—“Good God!” groaned my miserable George, “it means ruin; it + means imprisonment.” + </p> + <p> + Melancholy pictures went galloping like wild nightmares through this young + man's mind. He saw himself in the dock, addressed in awful words by the + judge who points out the despicable character of his crime; he saw himself + in hideous garb labouring in a convict prison; he saw himself struck off + the roll at the College of Surgeons; he saw himself—“Oh, Lord!” he + groaned, “I'm fairly in the cart!” + </p> + <p> + Very slowly, very abject, he peeled off his pyjamas; slid a white and + trembling leg into his bath. + </p> + <p> + But the preposterous buoyancy of youth! The cold water that splashed away + the clamminess of bed washed, too, the more vapoury fears from George's + brain; the chilly splashings that braced his system to a tingling glow + braced also his mind against the pummellings of his position. Drying, he + caught himself whistling; catching himself in such an act he laughed + ruefully to think how little ground he had for good spirits. + </p> + <p> + But the whistling prevailed. This ridiculous buoyancy of youth! What + luckless pigs are we who moon and fret and grow besodden with the waters + of our misfortunes! This cheeky corkiness of youth! Shove it under the + fretted sea of trouble, and free it will twist, up it will bob. Weight it + and drop it into the deepest pool; just when it should be drowned, pop! + and it is again merrily bobbing upon the surface. + </p> + <p> + It is a sight to make us solemn-souled folk disgustingly irritated. We are + the Marthas—trudging our daily rounds, oppressed with sense of the + duties that must be done, with the righteous feeling of the hardness of + our lot; and these light-hearts, these trouble-shirkers, this corkiness of + youth, exasperate us enormously. But the grin is on their side. + </p> + <p> + The whistling prevailed. By the time George was dressed he had put his + position into these words—these feather-brained, corky, preposterous + words: “By gum!” said George, brushing his hair, “by gum! I'm in a devil + of a hole!” + </p> + <p> + The decision summed up a cogitation that showed him to be in a hole + indeed, but not in so fearsome a pit as he had at first imagined. He had + at first supposed that within a few minutes the earth would be shovelled + in on him and be buried. Review of events showed the danger not to be so + acute. On arrival the previous night, after brief parley with Mrs. Pinner + he had gone straight to his room, bearing the Rose tight hid in her + basket. No reason, then, for suspicion yet to have fallen upon him. He + must continue to keep the Rose hid. It would be difficult, infernally + difficult; but so long as he could effect it he might remain here secure. + The beastly cat must of course be let out for a run. That was a chief + difficulty. Well, he must think out some fearful story that would give him + escape with the basket every morning. + </p> + <h3> + V. + </h3> + <p> + Breakfast was laid in a little sitting-room over the porch, adjoining his + bedroom. George pressed the poor Rose into her basket; carried it in. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pinner was setting flowers on the table. George carried the basket to + the window; placed it on a chair; sat upon it. With his right hand he + drummed upon the lid. It was his purpose to inspire the Rose with a timid + wonder at this drubbing that should prevent her voicing a protest against + cramped limbs. + </p> + <p> + “Some nice tea and a bit of fish I'm going to bring you up, mister,” Mrs. + Pinner told him. + </p> + <p> + Recollecting her deafness, and in fear lest she should approach the + basket, George from the window bellowed: “Thank you, Mrs. Pinner. But I + won't have tea, if you please. Won't have tea. I drink milk—<i>milk</i>. + A lot of milk. I'm a great milk-drinker.” + </p> + <p> + The Rose wriggled. George thumped the basket. “As soon as you like, Mrs. + Pinner. As quick as you like!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pinner closed the door; the Rose advertised her feelings in a long, + penetrating mi-aow. In an agony of strained listening George held his + breath. But Mrs. Pinner heard nothing; moved steadily downstairs. He wiped + his brow. This was the beginning of it. + </p> + <p> + When Mrs. Pinner reappeared, jug of milk and covered dish on a tray, + George's plan, after desperate searchings, had come to him. + </p> + <p> + He gave it speech. “I want to arrange, Mrs. Pinner—” + </p> + <p> + “If you wait till I've settled the tray, mister, I'll come close to you. + I'm that hard of hearing you wouldn't believe.” + </p> + <p> + George sprang from the basket; approached the table. His life depended + upon keeping a distance between basket and Pinner. + </p> + <p> + “I want to arrange to have this room as a private sitting-room.” + </p> + <p> + It had never been so used before, but it could be arranged, Mrs. Pinner + told him. She would speak to her 'usband about terms. + </p> + <p> + “And I want to keep it very private indeed, I don't want anyone to enter + it unless I am here.” George mounted his lie and galloped it, blushing for + shame of his steed. “The fact is, Mrs. Pinner, I'm an inventor. Yes, an + inventor. Oh, yes, an inventor.” The wretched steed was stumbling, but he + clung on; spurred afresh. “An inventor. And I have to leave things lying + about—delicate instruments that mustn't be disturbed. Awfully + delicate. I shall be out all day. I shall be taking my invention into the + open air to experiment with it. My invention—” He waved his hand at + the basket. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pinner quite understood; was impressed. “Oh, dear, yes, mister. To be + sure. An inventor; fancy that, now!” She gazed at the basket. “And the + invention is in there?” + </p> + <p> + “Right in there,” George assured her. + </p> + <p> + “You'll parding my asking, mister; but your saying you have to take it in + the open hair—is it one of them hairships, mister?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it <i>is,</i>” George said frankly. This was a useful idea and he + approved it. “It <i>is.</i> It's an airship.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I never did!” Mrs. Pinner admired, gazing at the basket. “A + hairship in there!” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Mi-aow!</i>” spoke the Rose—penetrating, piercing. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pinner cocked her head on one side; looked under the table. “I + declare I thought I heard a cat,” she puzzled. “In this very room.” + </p> + <p> + George felt perfectly certain that his hair was standing bolt upright on + the top of his head, thrusting at right angles to the sides. He forced his + alarmed face to smile: “A cock crowing in the yard, I think, Mrs. Pinner.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pinner took the explanation with an apologetic laugh. “I'm that hard + o' hearing you never would believe. But I could ha' sworn. Ill not keep + you chattering, sir.” She raised the dish cover. + </p> + <p> + A haddock was revealed. A fine, large, solid haddock from which a cloud of + strongly savoured vapour arose. + </p> + <p> + George foresaw disaster. That smell! that hungry cat! Almost he pushed + Mrs. Pinner to the door. “That you, thank you. I have everything now. I + will ring if—” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Mi-aow!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Bless my soul!” Mrs. Pinner exclaimed. “There is a cat”; dropped on hands + and knees; pushed her head beneath the sofa. + </p> + <p> + George rushed for the basket. Wreaking his craven alarm upon the hapless + prisoner, he shook it; with a horrible bump slammed it upon the floor; + placed his foot upon it. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pinner drew up, panting laboriously. “Didn't you hear a cat, mister?” + </p> + <p> + George grappled the crisis. “I did not hear a cat. If there were a cat I + should have heard it. I should have felt it. I abominate cats. I can + always tell when a cat is near me. There is no cat. Kindly leave me to my + breakfast.” + </p> + <p> + Poor Mrs. Pinner was ashamed. “I'm sure I do beg you parding, mister. The + fact is we've all got cats fair on the brain this morning. In this here + new paper, mister, as perhaps you've seen, and they're giving us a free + copy every day for a week, there's a cat been stole, mister. A hundred + pounds reward, and as the paper says, the cat may be under your very nose. + We're all a 'unting for it, mister.” + </p> + <p> + She withdrew. George crossed the room; pressed his head, against the cold + marble of the mantelpiece. His brows were burning; in the pit of his + stomach a sinking sensation gave him pain. “All a 'unting for it! all a + 'unting for it!” + </p> + <p> + When the Rose had bulged her flanks with the complete haddock, when, + responsive to a “Stuff your head in that, you brute,” the patient creature + had lapped a slop-bowl full of milk, George again imprisoned her; rushed, + basket under arm, for open country. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Pinner in the bar-parlour, as George fled through, was reading from a + paper to a stable hand, a servant girl, and a small red-headed Pinner boy: + “It may be in John o' Groats,” he read, “or it may be in Land's End.” He + thumped the bar. “'Ear that! Well, it may be in Dippleford Admiral.” + </p> + <p> + It was precisely because it was in Dippleford Admiral that his young + inventor lodger fled through the bar without so much as a civil “good + morning.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + At the post-office, keeping a drumming foot on the terrified Rose, George + sent a telegram to Mr. Marrapit. + </p> + <p> + <i>“Think on track. Must be cautious. Don't tell Brunger.”</i> + </p> + <p> + He flung down eightpence halfpenny; fled in the direction of a wood that + plumed a distant hill. Fear had this man. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> + <h3> + Panic At Dippleford Admiral. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + George left Dippleford Admiral that night. + </p> + <p> + He left at great speed. There was no sadness of farewell. There was no + farewell. + </p> + <p> + Returning at seven o'clock to his sitting-room at the inn, melancholy + beneath a hungry and brooding day in the woods with the Rose tethered to a + tree by the length of two handkerchiefs, he ordered supper—milk, + fish, and chops. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pinner asked him if that would be all. She and 'usband were going to + a chapel meeting; the servant girl was out; there would only be a young + man in the bar. + </p> + <p> + George took the news gratefully. His nerves had been upon the stretch all + day. It was comforting to think that for a few hours he and this vile cat + would have the house to themselves. + </p> + <p> + Immediately Mrs. Pinner left the room he greedily fell to upon the chops. + All day he had eaten nothing: the Rose must wait. Three parts of a tankard + of ale was sliding at a long and delectable draught down upon his meal + when the slam of a door, footsteps and a bawling voice in the yard told + him that Mrs. Pinner and 'usband had started, chatting pleasantly, for + their chapel meeting. + </p> + <p> + The dish cleared, George arranged his prisoner's supper; stepped to the + basket to fetch her to it. As he lifted her splendid form there came from + behind him an exclamation, an agitated scuffling. + </p> + <p> + In heart-stopping panic George dropped the cat, jumped around. The + red-headed Pinner boy, whom that morning he had seen in the bar-parlour, + was scrambling from beneath the sofa, arms and legs thrusting his flaming + pate at full-speed for the door. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” George cried, rooted in alarm. + </p> + <p> + The red-headed Pinner boy got to Ms feet, hurled himself at the door + handle. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” roared George, struggling with the stupefaction that gripped him. + “Stop, you young devil!” + </p> + <p> + The red-headed Pinner boy twisted the handle; was half through the door as + George bounded for him. + </p> + <p> + “Par-par!” screamed the flaming head, travelling at immense speed down the + passage. “Par-par! It ain't a hairship. It's a cat!” + </p> + <p> + George dashed. + </p> + <p> + “Par-par! Par-par! It's a cat!” The redheaded Pinner boy took the first + short flight of stairs in a jump; rounded for the second. + </p> + <p> + George lunged over the banisters; gripped close in the flaming hair; held + fast. + </p> + <p> + For a full minute in silence they poised—red-headed Pinner boy, on + tip-toe as much as possible to ease the pain, in acute agony and great + fear; George wildly seeking the plan that must be followed when he should + release this fateful head. + </p> + <p> + Presently, with a backward pull that most horribly twisted the red-headed + face: “If you speak a word I'll pull your head off,” George said. “Come up + here.” + </p> + <p> + The pitiful procession reached the sitting-room. “Sit down there,” George + commanded. “If you make a sound I shall probably cut your head clean off. + What do you mean by hiding in my room?” + </p> + <p> + Between gusty pain and terror: “I thought it was a hairship.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” George paced the room. What did the vile boy think now? “Oh, well, + what do you think it is now?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe it's the cat wot's in the piper.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you do, do you?” Yes, this was a very horrible position indeed. “Oh, + you do, do you? Now, you listen to me, my lad: unless you want your head + cut right off you sit still without a sound.” + </p> + <p> + The red-headed Pinner boy sat quite still; wept softly. Life, at the + moment, was a bitter affair for this boy. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + George paced. The hideous nightmares of the morning had returned now—snorting, + neighing, trampling iron-shod; stampeding in hideous irresistible rushes. + This was the beginning of the end. He was discovered—his' secret + out. + </p> + <p> + Flight—immediate flight—that was the essential course. + Par-par, thanks to sweet heaven, was at a chapel meeting. The thing could + be done. A timetable upon the mantelpiece told him that a down-train left + the station at 8.35. It was now eight. Better a down-train than an up. The + further from London the less chance of this infernal <i>Daily</i> with its + Country House Outrage. Examining the time-table he determined upon Temple + Colney—an hour's run. He had been there once with Bill. + </p> + <p> + But what of this infernal red-headed Pinner boy? In agony wrestling with + the question, George every way ran into the brick wall fact that there was + no method of stopping the vile boy's mouth. The red head must be left + behind to shriek its discovery to par-par. All that could be done was to + delay that shriek as long as possible. + </p> + <p> + George packed his small hand-bag; placed upon the table money to pay his + bill; lifted the crime-stained basket; addressed the red-headed Pinner + boy: + </p> + <p> + “Stop that sniffling. Take that bag. You are to come with me. If you make + a sound or try to run away you know what will happen to you. What did I + tell you would happen?” + </p> + <p> + “Cut me 'ead off.” + </p> + <p> + “Right off. Right off—<i>slish</i>! Give me your hand; come on.” + </p> + <p> + Through a side door, avoiding the bar, they passed into the street. Kind + night gave them cloaks of invisibility; no one was about. In a few minutes + they had left the bold village street, were in timid lanes that turned and + twisted hurrying through the high hedges. + </p> + <p> + Half a mile upon the further side of the station George that morning had + passed a line of haystacks. Now he made for it, skirting the railway by a + considerable distance. + </p> + <p> + The red-headed Pinner boy, exhausted by the pace of their walk, not + unnaturally nervous, spoke for the first time: “Ain't you going to the + station, mister?” + </p> + <p> + “Station? Certainly not. Do you think I am running away?” + </p> + <p> + The red-headed Pinner boy did not answer. This boy was recalling in every + detail the gruesome story, read in a paper, of a bright young lad who had + been foully done to death in a wood. + </p> + <p> + George continued: “I shall be back with you at the inn this evening, and I + shall ask your father to give you a good thrashing for hiding in my room.” + </p> + <p> + In an earnest prayer the red-headed Pinner boy besought God that he might + indeed be spared to receive that thrashing. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + They reached the haystack. George struck a match; looked at his watch. In + seven minutes the train was due. + </p> + <p> + The ladder George had noticed that morning was lying along the foot of a + stack. Uprearing it against one partially demolished, “Put down that bag,” + he commanded. “Up with you!” + </p> + <p> + Gustily sniffing in the huge sighs that advertised his terror, the + red-headed Pinner boy obeyed. George drew down the ladder. “Stop up there; + I shall be back in five minutes. If you move before then—” + </p> + <p> + He left the trembling boy out of his own agitated fear to fill the + unspoken doom. He walked slowly away in the direction opposite from the + station until the haystack was merged and lost in the blackness that + surrounded it. Then, doubling back, he made for the road; pounded along it + at desperate speed. + </p> + <p> + Most satisfactorily did that bounding, lurching, stumbling run along the + dark, uneven lane punish this crime-steeped George. Well he realised, + before he had sped a hundred yards, that guilt lashes with a double thong. + She had scourged him mentally; now with scorpions she physically lashed + him. As it had been racked throbbed that left arm encircling the basket + wherein in wild fear the Rose clung to ease the dreadful bruisings that + each oscillation gave her; as it were a ton-weight did that hand-bag drag + his right arm, thud his thigh; as he were breathing fire did his tearing + respirations sear his throat; as a great piston were driving in his skull + did the blood hammer his temples. + </p> + <p> + Topping a low rise he sighted the station lights below. Simultaneously, + from behind a distant whistle there sprang to his ears the low rumble of + the coming train. + </p> + <p> + This history is not to be soiled with what George said at the sound. With + the swiftness and the scorching of flame his dreadful commination leapt + from the tortured Rose, terrified in her basket, to the red-headed Pinner + boy wrestling in prayer upon the haystack—from the roughness of the + lane that laboured his passage to the speed of the oncoming train that + hammered at his fate. + </p> + <p> + He hurled himself down the rise; with his last breath gasped for a ticket; + upon a final effort projected himself into the train; went prone upon a + seat. He was away! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It was when George was some fifteen minutes from Temple Colney that the + red-headed Pinner boy, bolstered up with prayer, commended his soul to + God; slipped with painful thud from the haystack; pelted for Par-par. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. + </h2> + <h3> + Disaster At Temple Colney. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + Three days have passed. + </p> + <p> + That somewhat pale and haggard-looking young man striding, a basket + beneath his arm, up the main street of Temple Colney is George. The + villagers stop to stare after him; grin, and nudge into one another + responsive grins, at his curious mannerisms. He walks in the exact centre + of the roadway, as far as he can keep from passers-by on either side. + Approached by anyone, he takes a wide circle to avoid that person. + Sometimes a spasm as of fear will cross his face and he will violently + shake the basket he carries. Always he walks with giant strides. Every + morning he shoots out of the inn where he is staying as though sped on the + blast of some ghostly current of air; every evening, returning, he gives + the impression of gathering himself together on the threshold, then goes + bolting in at whirlwind speed. He is a somewhat pale and haggard young + man. + </p> + <p> + The villagers know him well. He is the young hairship inventor who has a + private sitting-room at the Colney Arms. Certain of them, agog to pry his + secret, followed him as he set out one day. They discovered nothing. For + hours they followed; but he, glancing ever over his shoulder, pounded + steadily on, mile upon mile—field, lane, high road, hill and dale. + He never shook them off though he ran; they never brought him to + standstill though indomitably they pursued. Towards evening the exhausted + procession came thundering up the village street. + </p> + <p> + It was a very pale and haggard young man that bolted into the Colney Arms + that night. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + Three days had passed. + </p> + <p> + If George had the <i>Daily</i> to curse for the miserable life of secrecy + and constant agony of discovery that he was compelled to lead, he had it + also to bless that his discovery by the red-headed Pinner boy had not long + ago led to his being run to earth. In its anxiety to cap the satisfactory + splash it was making over this Country House Outrage, the <i>Daily</i> had + overstepped itself and militated against itself. Those “Catchy Clues” were + responsible. So cunningly did they inspire the taste for amateur detective + work, so easy did they make such work appear, that Mr. Pinner, having + thrashed silence into his red-headed son, kept that son's discovery to + himself. As he argued it—laboriously pencilling down “data” in + accordance with the “Catchy Clue” directions,—as he argued it—if + he communicated his knowledge to the <i>Daily</i> or to the local police, + if he put them—(the word does not print nicely) on the scent, ten to + one they would capture the thief and secure the reward. No, Mr. Pinner + intended to have the reward himself. Therefore he hoarded his secret; + brooded upon it; dashed off hither and thither as the day's news brought + him a Catchy Clue that seemed to fit his data. + </p> + <p> + But of this George knew nothing. Steeped in crime this miserable young man + dragged out his awful life at Temple Colney: nightmares by night, horrors + by day. + </p> + <p> + Every morning with trembling fingers he opened his <i>Daily</i>; every + morning was shot dead by these lines or their equivalent: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + COUNTRY HOUSE OUTRAGE. + + FRESH CLUE. + + CAT SEEN. + + SENSATIONAL STORY. +</pre> + <p> + After much groaning and agony George would force himself to know the + worst; after swearing furiously through the paragraphs of stuffing with + which Mr. Bitt's cunning young man skilfully evaded the point, would come + at last upon the “fresh clue” and read with a groan of relief that, so far + as the truth were concerned, it was no clue at all. + </p> + <p> + But the strain was horrible. All Temple Colney read the <i>Daily</i>; + eagerly debated its “Catchy Clues.” + </p> + <p> + Yet George could not see, he told himself, that he would better his plight + by seeking fresh retreat. If the <i>Daily</i> were to be believed, all the + United Kingdom read it and discussed its Catchy Clues. He decided it were + wiser to remain racked at Temple Colney rather than try his luck, and + perhaps be torn to death, elsewhere. + </p> + <p> + Twice he had been moved to abandon his awful enterprise—in the train + fleeing from the red-headed Pinner boy; pounding across country pursued by + curious inhabitants of Temple Colney. On these occasions this miserable + George had been minded to cry defeated to the circumstances that struck at + him, to return to Herons' Holt with the cat whilst yet he might do so + without gyves on his wrists. + </p> + <p> + But thought of his dear Mary hunted thought of this craven ending. “I'll + hang on!” he had cried, thumping the carriage seat: “I'll hang on! I'll + hang on! I'll hang on!” he had thumped into the table upon his weary + return to the inn on the day he had been followed. + </p> + <p> + He had cause for hope. When, on his second morning at Temple Colney, the + <i>Daily</i> had struck him to white agony by its newest headlines; + cooling, he was able to find comfort in the news it gave to the world. “On + the advice of the eminent detective, Mr. David Brunger, who has the case + in hand, the reward has been raised to 125 pounds.” + </p> + <p> + “Whoop!” cried George, spirits returning. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + Three days had passed. + </p> + <p> + Rain began to fall heavily on this afternoon. Usually—even had there + been floods—George did not return to the inn until seven o'clock. + The less he was near the abode of man the safer was his vile secret. But + to-day, when the clouds told him a steady downpour had set in, he put out + for his lodging before three. He was in high spirits. Success was making + him very bold. At Temple Colney, thus far, no breath of suspicion had + paled his cheek; at Herons' Holt events were galloping to the end he would + have them go. That morning the <i>Daily</i> had announced the raising of + the reward to 150 pounds. True, the <i>Daily</i> added that Mr. Marrapit + had declared, absolutely and finally, that he would not go one penny + beyond this figure. George laughed as he read. In four days his uncle had + raised the offer by fifty pounds; at this rate—and the rate would + increase as Mr. Marrapit's anguish augmented—the 500 pounds would + soon be reached. And then! And then! + </p> + <p> + Through the pouring rain George whistled up the village street, whistled + up the stairs, whistled into the sitting—room. Then stopped his + tune. The buoyant notes of triumph dwindled to a tuneless squeak, to a + noiseless breathing—Bill Wyvern, seated at a table, sprung to meet + him. + </p> + <p> + “What ho!” cried Bill. “They told me you wouldn't be in before seven! What + ho! Isn't this splendid?” + </p> + <p> + George said in very hollow voice: “Splendid!” He put the basket on a + chair; sat on it; gave Bill an answering, “What ho!” that was cheerful as + rap upon a coffin lid. + </p> + <p> + “Well, how goes it?” Bill asked eagerly. + </p> + <p> + George put out a hand. “Don't come over here, dear old fellow. I'm + streaming wet. Sit down there. How goes what?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, the clue—your clue to this cat?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the clue—the clue. Yes, I'll tell you all about that. Just wait + here a moment.” He rose with the basket; moved to the door. + </p> + <p> + “What on earth have you got in that basket?” Bill asked. + </p> + <p> + “Eggs,” George told him impressively. “Eggs for my uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “You must have a thundering lot in a basket that size.” + </p> + <p> + “Three or four hundred,” George said. “Three or four hundred eggs.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke in the passionless voice of one in a dream. Indeed he was in a + dream. This horrible contingency had so set him whirling that of clear + thought he was incapable. Moving to his bedroom he thrust the basket + beneath the bed; came out; locked the door; took the key; returned to + Bill. + </p> + <p> + Bill came over and slapped him on the back. “Expect you're surprised to + see me?” he cried. “Isn't this ripping, old man?” + </p> + <p> + “Stunning!” said George. “Absolutely stunning.” He sank on a chair. + </p> + <p> + Bill was perplexed. “You don't look best pleased, old man. What's up?” + </p> + <p> + This was precisely what George wished to know. Terror of hearing some + hideous calamity stayed him from putting the question. He gave a pained + smile. “Oh, I'm all right. I'm a bit fagged, that's all. The strain of + this search, you know, the—” + </p> + <p> + “I know!” cried Bill enthusiastically. “I <i>know</i>. You've been + splendid, old man. Finding out a clue like this and pluckily carrying it + through all by yourself. By Jove, it's splendid of you!—especially + when you've no reason to do much for your uncle after the way in which + he's treated you. I admire you, George. By Gad, I <i>do</i> admire you!” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all!” George advised him. “By no means, old fellow.” He wiped his + brow; his mental suffering was considerable. + </p> + <p> + “I say, I can see you're pretty bad, old man,” Bill continued. “Never + mind, I'm here to help you now. That's what I've come for.” + </p> + <p> + George felt that something very dreadful indeed was at hand. “How did you + find out where I was?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “From old Marrapit.” + </p> + <p> + “Marrapit? Why, but my uncle won't let you come within a mile of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! that's all over now.” A very beautiful look came into Bill's eyes; + tenderness shaded his voice: “George, old man, if I can track down the + hound who has stolen this cat your uncle has practically said that he will + agree to my engagement with Margaret.” + </p> + <p> + George tottered across the room; pressed his head against the cold + window-pane. Here was the calamity. He had thought of taking Bill into his + confidence—how do so now? + </p> + <p> + “I say, you do look bad, old man,” Bill told him. + </p> + <p> + “I'm all right. Tell me all about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's too good—too wonderful to be true. Everything is going + simply splendidly with me. I'm running this cat business for the <i>Daily</i>—my + paper, you know. It's made a most frightful splash and the editor is + awfully bucked up with me. I'm on the permanent staff, six quid a week—eight + quid a week if I find this cat. I'm working it from Herons' Holt, you + know. I'm—” + </p> + <p> + George turned upon him. “Are you 'Our Special Commissioner at Paltley + Hill'?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather! Have you been reading it? Pretty hot stuff, isn't it? I say, + George, wasn't it lucky I chucked medicine! I told you I was cut out for + this kind of thing if only I could get my chance. Well, I've got my + chance; and by Gad, old man, if I don't track down this swine who's got + the cat, or help to get him tracked down, I'll—I'll—” The + enthusiastic young man broke off—“Isn't it great, George?” + </p> + <p> + My miserable George paced the room. “Great!” he forced out. “Great!” This + was the infernal Special Commissioner whom daily he had yearned to + strangle. “Great! By Gad, there are no words for it!” + </p> + <p> + “I knew you'd be pleased. Thanks awfully—<i>awfully</i>. Well, I was + telling you. Being down there for the paper I simply had to interview + Marrapit. I plucked up courage and bearded him. He's half crazy about this + wretched cat. I found him as meek as a lamb. Bit snarly at first, but when + he found how keen I was, quite affectingly pleasant. I've seen him every + day for the last four days, and yesterday he said what I told you—I + came out with all about Margaret and about my splendid prospects, and, as + I say, he practically said that if I could find the cat he'd be willing to + think of our engagement.” + </p> + <p> + “But about finding out where I was? How did you discover that?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he told me. Told me this morning.” Bill shuffled his legs + uncomfortably for a moment, then plunged ahead. “Fact is, old man, he's a + bit sick with you. Said he'd only had one telegram from you from + Dippleford Admiral and one letter from here. Said it was unsatisfactory—that + it was clear you were incapable of following up this clue of yours by + yourself. You don't mind my telling you this, do you, old man? You know + what he is.” + </p> + <p> + George gave the bitter laugh of one who is misunderstood, unappreciated. + “Go on,” he said, “go on.” He was trembling to see the precipice over + which the end of Bill's story would hurl him. + </p> + <p> + “Well, as I said—that it was clear you could not carry through your + clue by yourself. So I was to come down and help you. That was about ten + o'clock, and I caught the mid-day train—I've been here since two. + Well, Brunger—the detective chap, you know—Marrapit was going + to send him on here at once—” + </p> + <p> + This was the precipice. George went hurtling over the edge with whirling + brain: “Brunger coming down here?” he cried. + </p> + <p> + “Rather! Now, we three together, old man—” + </p> + <p> + “When's he coming?” George asked. He could not hear his own voice—the + old nightmares danced before his eyes, roared their horrors in his ears. + </p> + <p> + Bill looked at the clock. “He ought to be here by now. He ought to have + arrived—” + </p> + <p> + The roaring confusion in George's brain went to a tingling silence; + through it there came footsteps and a man's voice upon the stairs. + </p> + <p> + As the tracked criminal who hears his pursuer upon the threshold, as the + fugitive from justice who feels upon his shoulder the sudden hand of + arrest, as the poor wretch in the condemned cell when the hangman enters—as + the feelings of these, so, at this sound, the emotions of my miserable + George. + </p> + <p> + A dash must be made to flatten this hideous doom. Upon a sudden impulse he + started forward. “Bill! Bill, old man, I want to tell you something. You + don't know what the finding of this cat means to me. It—” + </p> + <p> + “I do know, old man,” Bill earnestly assured him. “You're splendid, old + man, splendid. I never dreamt you were so fond of your uncle. Old man, it + means even more to me—it means Margaret and success. Here's Brunger. + We three together, George. Nothing shall stop us.” + </p> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <p> + The sagacious detective entered. George gave him a limp, damp hand. + </p> + <p> + “You don't look well,” Mr. Brunger told him, after greetings. + </p> + <p> + “Just what I was saying,” Bill joined. + </p> + <p> + Indeed, George looked far from well. Round-shouldered he sat upon the + sofa, head in hands—a pallid face beneath a beaded brow staring out + between them. + </p> + <p> + “It's the strain of this clue, Mr. Brunger,” Bill continued. “He's on the + track!” + </p> + <p> + “You are?” cried the detective. + </p> + <p> + “Right on,” George said dully. “Right on the track.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it a gang?” + </p> + <p> + “Two,” George answered in the same voice. “Two gangs.” + </p> + <p> + The sagacious detective thumped the table. “I said so. I knew it. I told + you so, Mr. Wyvern. But <i>two</i>, eh? <i>Two</i> gangs. That's tough. + One got the cat and the other after it, I presume?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said George. He was wildly thinking; to the conversation paying no + attention. + </p> + <p> + “No? But, my dear sir, one of 'em <i>must</i> have the cat?” + </p> + <p> + George started to the necessities of the immediate situation; wondered + what he had said; caught at Mr. Brunger's last word. “The cat? Another + gang has got the cat.” + </p> + <p> + “What, three gangs!” the detective cried. + </p> + <p> + “Three gangs,” George affirmed. + </p> + <p> + “Two gangs you said at first,” Mr. Brunger sharply reminded him. + </p> + <p> + My miserable George dug his fingers into his hair. “I meant three—I'd + forgotten the other.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't see how a man can forget a whole <i>gang</i>,” objected the + detective. He stared at George; frowned; produced his note-book. “Let us + have the facts, sir.” + </p> + <p> + As if drawn by the glare fixed upon him, George moved from the sofa to the + table. + </p> + <p> + “Now, the facts,” Mr. Brunger repeated. “Let's get these gangs settled + first.” + </p> + <p> + George took a chair. He had no plan. He plunged wildly. “Gang A, gang B, + gang C, gang D—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Brunger stopped short in the midst of his note. + </p> + <p> + “Why, that's <i>four</i> gangs!” + </p> + <p> + The twisting of George's legs beneath the table was sympathetic with the + struggles of his bewildered mind. He said desperately, “Well, there <i>are</i> + four gangs.” + </p> + <p> + The detective threw down his pencil. “You're making a fool of me!” he + cried. “First you said two gangs, then three gangs—” + </p> + <p> + “You're making a fool of yourself,” George answered hotly. “If you knew + anything about gangs you'd know they're always breaking up—quarrelling, + and then rejoining, and then splitting again. If you can't follow, don't + follow. Find the damned gangs yourself. You're a detective—I'm not. + At least you say you are. You're a precious poor one, seems to me. You've + not done much.” + </p> + <p> + In his bewilderment and fear my unfortunate George had unwittingly hit + upon an admirable policy. Since first Mr. Marrapit had called Mr. Brunger + it had sunk in upon the Confidential Inquiry Agent that indeed he was a + precious poor detective. In the five days that had passed he had not + struck upon the glimmer of a notion regarding the whereabouts of the + missing cat. This was no hiding in cupboard work, no marked coin work, no + following the skittish wife of a greengrocer work. It was the real thing—real + detective work, and it had found Mr. Brunger most lamentably wanting. Till + now, however, none had suspected his perplexity. He had impressed his + client—had bounced, noted, cross-examined, measured; and during + every bounce, note, cross-examination and measurement fervently had prayed + that luck—or the reward—would help him stumble upon something + he could claim as outcome of his skill. George's violent attack alarmed + him; he drew in his horns. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! don't be 'ot,” he protested. “Don't be 'ot. Little misunderstanding, + that's all. I follow you completely. Four gangs—<i>I</i> see. <i>Four</i> + gangs. Now, sir.” + </p> + <p> + It was George's turn for fear. “Four gangs—quite so. Well, what do + you want me to tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “Start from the beginning, sir.” + </p> + <p> + George started—plunged head-first. For five minutes he desperately + gabbled while Mr. Brunger's pencil bounded along behind his splashing; + words. Every time the pencil seemed to slacken, away again George would + fly and away in pursuit the pencil would laboriously toil. + </p> + <p> + “Four gangs,” George plunged along. “Gang A, gang B, gang C, gang D. Gang + A breaks into the house and steals the cat. Gang B finds it gone and + tracks down gang C.” + </p> + <p> + “Tracks gang A, surely,” panted Mr. Brunger. “Gang A had the cat.” + </p> + <p> + “Gang B didn't know that. I tell you this is a devil of a complicated + affair. Gang B tracks down gang C and finds gang D. They join. Call 'em + gang B-D. Gang A loses the cat and gang C finds it. Gang C sells it to + gang B-D, which is run by an American, as I said.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you?” gasped Mr. Brunger without looking up. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. Gang B-D hands it over to gang A by mistake, and gang A makes + off with it. Gang C, very furious because it is gang A's great rival, + starts in pursuit and gets it back again. Then gang B-D demands it, but + gang A refuses to give it up.” + </p> + <p> + “Gang C!” Mr. Brunger panted. “Gang C had got it from gang A.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but gang A got it back again. Gang B-D—Look here,” George + broke off, “that's perfectly clear about the gangs, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly,” said Mr. Brunger, feeling that his reputation was gone unless + he said so. “Wants a little studying, that's all. Most extraordinary story + I ever heard of.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm dashed if I understand a word of it,” Bill put in. “Who <i>are</i> + these gangs?” + </p> + <p> + George rose: “Bill, old man, I'll explain that another time. The fact is, + we're wasting time by sitting here. I was very near the end when you two + arrived. The cat is here—quite near here.” + </p> + <p> + The detective and Bill sprang to their feet. George continued: “It's going + to change hands either tonight or to-morrow. If you two will do just as I + tell you and leave the rest to me, we shall bring off a capture. To-morrow + evening I will explain everything.” + </p> + <p> + The detective asked eagerly; “Is it a certainty?” + </p> + <p> + “Almost. It will be touch and go; but if we miss it this time it is a + certainty for the immediate future. I swear this, that if you keep in + touch with me you will be nearer the cat than you will ever get by + yourselves.” + </p> + <p> + Sincerity shone in his eyes from these words. The detective and Bill were + fired with zeal. + </p> + <p> + “Take command, sir!” said Mr. Brunger. + </p> + <p> + “All right. Come with me. I will post you for the night. We have some + distance to go. Don't question me. I must think.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a question,” said the detective: he was, indeed, too utterly + bewildered. + </p> + <p> + George murmured “Thank heaven!”; took his hat; led the way into the + street. In dogged silence the three tramped through the rain. + </p> + <h3> + V. + </h3> + <p> + George led for the Clifford Arms, some two miles distant. For the present + he had but one object in view. He must get rid of Bill and this infernal + detective; then he must speed the cat from Temple Colney. + </p> + <p> + As he walked he pushed out beyond the primary object of ridding himself of + his companions; sought the future. In the first half-mile he decided that + the game was up. He must deliver the Rose to his uncle immediately without + waiting for the reward to be further raised. To hang on for the shadow + would be, he felt, to lose the substance that would stand represented by + Mr. Marrapit's gratitude. + </p> + <p> + But this preposterous buoyancy of youth! The rain that beat upon his face + cooled his brow; seemed to cool his brain. Before the first mile was + crossed he had vacillated from his purpose. When he said to his followers + “Only another half-mile,” his purpose was changed. + </p> + <p> + This preposterous corkiness of youth! It had lifted him up from the sea of + misfortune in which he had nigh been drowned, and now he was assuring + himself that, given he could hide the Rose where a sudden glimmering idea + suggested, he would be safer than ever before. The two men who were most + dangerous to him—the detective and the <i>Daily's</i> Special + Commissioner at Paltley Hill, now slushing through the mud behind—were + beneath his thumb. If he could keep them goose-chasing for a few days or + so—! + </p> + <p> + The turn of a corner brought them in view of the Clifford Arms. George + pointed: “I want you to spend the night there and to stay there till I + come to-morrow. A man is there whom you must watch—the landlord.” + </p> + <p> + “One of the gangs?” Mr. Brunger asked, hoarse excitement in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Gang B—leader. Don't let him suspect you. Just watch him.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he got the cat?” + </p> + <p> + With great impressiveness George looked at the detective, looked at Bill. + Volumes of meaning in his tone: “<i>Not yet!</i>” he said. + </p> + <p> + Bill cried: “By Gad!” The detective rubbed his hands in keen anticipation. + </p> + <p> + They entered the inn. Bill gave a story of belated tourists. A room was + engaged. In a quarter of an hour George was speeding back to Temple + Colney. + </p> + <p> + At the post-office he stopped; purchased a letter-card; held his pen a + while as he polished the glimmering idea that now had taken form; then + wrote to his Mary:— + </p> + <p> + “My dearest girl in all the world,—You've never had a line from me + all this time, but you can guess what a time I've been having. Dearest + darling, listen and attend. This is most important. Our future depends + upon it. Meet me to-morrow at 12.0 at that tumbled-down hut in the copse + on the Shipley Road where we went that day just before my exam. Make any + excuse to get away. You must be there. And don't tell a soul. + </p> + <p> + “Till to-morrow, my darling little Mary.—G.” + </p> + <p> + He posted the card. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK VI. + </h2> + <h3> + Of Paradise Lost and Found. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <h3> + Mrs. Major Bids For Paradise. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + Impossible to tell how far will spread the ripples from the lightest + action that we may toss into the sea of life. + </p> + <p> + Life is a game of consequences. A throws a stone, and the widening ripples + wreck the little boats of X and Y and Z who never have even heard of A. + Every day and every night, every hour of every day and night, ripples from + unknown splashes are setting towards us—perhaps to swamp us, perhaps + to bear us into some pleasant stream. One calls it luck, another fate. + “This is my just punishment,” cries one. “By my good works I have merited + this,” exclaims another; but it is merely the ripple from some distant + splash—merely consequences. Consequences. + </p> + <p> + A sleepy maid in Mr. City Merchant's suburban mansion leaves the dust-pan + on the stairs after sweeping. That is the little action she has tossed + into the sea of life, and the ripples will wreck a boat or two now snug + and safe in a cheap and happy home many miles away. Mr. City Merchant + trips over the dustpan, starts for office fuming with rage, vents his + spleen upon Mr. City Clerk—dismisses him. + </p> + <p> + Mr. City Clerk seeks work in vain; the cheap but happy home he shares with + pretty little Mrs. City Clerk and plump young Master City Clerk is + abandoned for a dingy lodging. Grade by grade the lodging they must seek + grows dingier. Now there is no food. Now they are getting desperate. Now + pneumonia lays erstwhile plump Master City Clerk by the heels and carries + him off—consequences, consequences; that is one boat wrecked. Now + Mr. City Clerk is growing mad with despair; Mrs. City Clerk is well upon + the road that Master City Clerk has followed. Mr. City Clerk steals, is + caught, is imprisoned—consequences, consequences; another boat + wrecked. Mrs. City Clerk does not hold out long, follows Master City Clerk—consequences, + consequences. Three innocent craft smashed up because the housemaid left + the dustpan on the stairs. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + Impossible to tell how far will speed the ripples from the lightest action + that we may toss into the sea of life. Solely and wholly because George + abducted the Rose of Sharon, Miss Pridham, who keeps the general drapery + in Angel Street, Marylebone Road, sold a pair of green knitted slippers, + each decorated with a red knitted blob, that had gazed melancholy from her + shop window for close upon two years. + </p> + <p> + It was Mrs. Major who purchased them. + </p> + <p> + Since that terrible morning on which, throat and mouth parched, head + painfully throbbing through the overnight entertainment of Old Tom, Mrs. + Major had been driven from Mr. Marrapit's door, this doubly distressed + gentlewoman had lived in retirement in a bed-sitting-room in Angel Street. + She did not purpose immediately taking another situation. This woman had + sipped the delights of Herons' Holt; her heart was there, and for a month + or two, as, sighing over her lot, she determined, she would brood in + solitude upon the paradise she had lost before challenging new fortunes. + </p> + <p> + The ripples of the abduction of the Rose reached her. This was a masterly + woman, and instanter she took the tide upon the flood. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major was not a newspaper reader. The most important sheet of the <i>Daily</i>, + however, she one day carried into her bed-sitting-room wrapped about a + quartern of Old Tom. It was the day when first “Country House Outrage” + shouted from the <i>Daily's</i> columns. + </p> + <p> + Idly scanning the report her eye chanced upon familiar names. A common + mind would have been struck astonished and for some hours been left + fluttering. Your masterly mind grasps at once and together a solution and + its possibilities. Without pause for thought, without even sniff of the + new quartern of Old Tom, Mrs. Major sought pen and paper; wrote with + inspired pen to Mr. Marrapit: + </p> + <p> + “I do not even dare begin 'Dear Mr. Marrapit.' I have forfeited the right + even to address you; but in the moment of your great tribulation something + stronger than myself makes me take up my pen—” + </p> + <p> + Here Mrs. Major paused; read what she had written; without so much as a + sigh tore the sheet and started afresh. That “something stronger than + myself makes me” she felt to be a mistake. Something decidedly stronger + than herself sat in the quartern bottle a few inches from her nose, and it + occurred to her that a cruel mind might thus interpret her meaning. She + tore the sheet. This was a masterly woman. + </p> + <p> + “I dare not even begin 'Dear Mr. Marrapit.' I have forfeited the right + even to address you; but in the moment of your tribulation I feel that I + must come forward with my sympathy. Oh, Mr. Marrapit, may I say with my + aid? I feel I could help you if only I might come to dear, dear Herons' + Holt. When I think of my angel darling Rose of Sharon straying far from + the fold my heart bleeds. Oh, Mr. Marrapit, I cannot rest, I cannot live, + while my darling is wandering on the hillside, or is stolen, and I am + unable to search for her. Oh, Mr. Marrapit, think of me, I implore you, + not as Mrs. Major, but as one whom your sweet darling Rose loved. If the + Rose is anywhere near Herons' Holt, she would come to me if I called her, + I feel sure, more readily than she would come to anyone else except + yourself, and you are not strong enough to search as I would search. Oh, + Mr. Marrapit, let me come to Herons' Holt in this terrible hour. Do not + speak to me, do not look at me, Mr. Marrapit. I do not ask that. I only + beg on my bended knees that you will let me lay myself at night even in + the gardener's shed, so that I may be there to tend my lamb when she is + found, and by day will be able to search for her. That is all I ask. + </p> + <p> + “Of myself I will say nothing. I will not force upon you the explanations + of that dreadful night which you would not take from my trembling lips. I + will not tell you that, maddened by the toothache, I was advised to hold a + little drop of spirit in the tooth, and that, never having touched + anything but water since I and my dear little brother promised my dying + mother we would not, the spirit went to my head and made me as you saw me. + I will not write any of those things, Mr. Marrapit; only, oh, Mr. + Marrapit, I implore you to let me come and look for my Rose. Nor will I + tell you how fondly, since I left you, I have thought of all your nobility + of character and of your goodness to me, Mr. Marrapit. Wronged, I bear no + resentment. I have received too much kindness at your hands. Ever since I + left you I have thought of none but the Rose and you. Shall I prove that? + I will, Mr. Marrapit—” + </p> + <p> + Here again Mrs. Major paused; thoughtfully scratched her head with her + penholder. Like authors more experienced, her emotions had driven her pen + to a point demanding a special solution which was not immediately + forthcoming. She had galloped into a wood. How to get out of it? + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major scratched thoughtfully; gazed at Old Tom; gazed round the room; + on a happy inspiration gazed from the window. Miss Pridham's general + drapery was immediately opposite. A bright patch of green in the window + caught Mrs. Major's eye. She recognised it as the knitted slippers she had + once or twice noticed in passing. + </p> + <p> + The very thing! Laying down her pen the masterly woman popped across to + Miss Pridham's; in two minutes, leaving that lady delighted and + one-and-eleven-three the richer, was back with the green knitted slippers + with the red knitted blobs. + </p> + <p> + She took up her pen and continued: + </p> + <p> + “Ever since I left I have thought of none but the Rose and you. Shall I + prove that? I will, Mr. Marrapit. Oh, Mr. Marrapit, I make so bold as to + send you in a little parcel a pair of woollen slippers that I have knitted + for you.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major examined them. Such sun as creeps into Angel Street, Marylebone + Road, jealous of rival brightness had filched their first delicate tint of + green, had stolen the first passionate scarlet of the red blobs. She + continued: + </p> + <p> + “They are a little faded because on every stitch a bitter tear has fallen. + Yes, Mr. Marrapit, my tears of sorrow have rained upon these slippers as I + worked. Oh, Mr. Marrapit, they are not damp, however. Every evening since + they were finished I have had my little fire lighted and have stood the + slippers up against the fender; and then, sitting on the opposite side of + the hearth, just as I used to sit for a few minutes with you after we had + brought in the darling cats, I have imagined that your feet were in the + slippers and have imagined that I am back where I have left my bleeding + heart. I never meant to dare send them to you, Mr. Marrapit, but in this + moment of your tribulation I make bold to do so. Do not open the parcel, + Mr. Marrapit, if you would rather not. Hurl it on the fire and let the + burning fiery furnace consume them, tears and all. But I feel I must send + them, whatever their fate. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mr. Marrapit, let me come to Herons' Holt to find my darling Rose!—then + without a word I will creep away and die.—LUCY MAJOR.” + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + Upon the following morning there sped to Mrs. Major from Herons' Holt a + telegram bearing the message “Come.” + </p> + <p> + Frantic to clutch at any straw that might bring to him this Rose, Mr. + Marrapit eagerly clutched at Mrs. Major. He felt there to be much truth, + in her contention that his Rose, if secreted near by, would come quicker + at her call than at the call of another. His Rose had known and loved her + for a full year. His Rose, refined cat, did not take quickly to strangers, + and had not—he had noticed it—given herself to Miss Humfray. + Therefore Mr. Marrapit eagerly clutched at Mrs. Major. + </p> + <p> + As to the remainder of her letter—it considerably perturbed him. Had + he misjudged this woman, whom once he had held estimable? All the + delectable peace of his household during her reign, as contrasted with the + turmoil that now had taken its place, came back to him and smote his + heart. He opened the slippers, noted the tear-stains. Had he misjudged + her? What more likely than her story of the racking tooth that must be + lulled with a little drop of spirit? Had he misjudged her? But as against + that little drop of spirit, how account for the vast and empty bottle of + Old Tom found in her room? Had he misjudged her? + </p> + <p> + In much conflict of mind this man paced the breakfast room, a green + knitted slipper with red knitted blob in either hand. + </p> + <p> + It was thus that Margaret, entering, found him. + </p> + <p> + With a soft little laugh, “Oh, father!” she cried, “what have you got + there?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit raised the green knitted slippers with the red knitted blobs. + “A contrite heart,” he answered. “A stricken and a contrite heart.” + </p> + <p> + He resumed his pacing. Margaret squeezed round the door which happily she + had left ajar; fled breakfastless. Quick at poetic image though she was, + the symbol of a contrite heart in a pair of green knitted slippers with + red knitted blobs was not clear to this girl. In her father it alarmed + her. This great sorrow was perchance turning his brain. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit laid the slippers upon his dressing-table; that afternoon + greeted Mrs. Major with a circumspect reserve. Combining the vast and + empty bottle of Old Tom with the fact that never had his judgment of man + or matter failed him, he determined that Mrs. Major was guilty. But not + wilfully guilty. Tempted to drown pain, she had succumbed; but the + slippers were the sign of a contrite heart. + </p> + <p> + The masterly possessor of the contrite heart betrayed no signs of its + flutterings and its exultant boundings at being once more in paradise. + This was a masterly woman, and, masterly, she grasped at once her position—without + hesitation started to play her part. + </p> + <p> + In Mr. Marrapit's study she stood humbly before him with bowed head; did + not speak. Her only sounds were those of repressed emotion as Mr. Marrapit + recited the history of the abduction. The white handkerchief she kept + pressed against her chin punctuated the story with sudden little dabs + first to one eye then the other. Little sniffs escaped her; little catches + of the breath; tiny little moans. + </p> + <p> + She choked when he had finished: “Let me see—my darling's—bed.” + </p> + <p> + Mr Marrapit led the way. Above the silk-lined box whence George had + snatched the Rose, the masterly woman knelt. She fondled the silken + coverlet; her lips moved. Suddenly she dashed her handkerchief to her + eyes; with beautiful moans fled hurriedly to the bedroom that had been + allotted her. + </p> + <p> + It was an exquisitely touching sight. Mr. Marrapit, greatly moved, went to + his room; took out the green knitted slippers with the red knitted blobs. + Had he misjudged this woman? + </p> + <p> + Ten minutes later he again encountered Mrs. Major. Now she was girt + against the weather and against exercise. Beneath her chin were firmly + knotted the strings of her sober bonnet; a short skirt hid nothing of the + stout boots she had donned; her hand grasped the knob of a bludgeon-like + umbrella. + </p> + <p> + The masterly woman had removed all traces of her emotion. In a voice + humble yet strong, “I start to search, Mr. Marrapit,” she said. “I will + find the Rose if she is to be found.” + </p> + <p> + So deep sincerity was in her speech, so strong she seemed, so restful in + this crisis, that Mr. Marrapit, watching her stride the drive, again fell + to pacing and cogitation—had he misjudged her? Almost unconsciously + he moved upstairs to his room; drew those green slippers with red blobs + from their drawer. + </p> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <p> + Had Mr. Marrapit doubted the sincerity of Mrs. Major's search, assuredly + he would have misjudged her. In her diary that night the masterly woman + inscribed: + </p> + <p> + “<i>Am here; must stick</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Her best chance of sticking, as well she knew, lay in finding the Rose. + Could she but place that creature's exquisite form in Mr. Marrapit's arms, + she felt that her reward would be to win back to the paradise from which + Old Tom had driven her. + </p> + <p> + Therefore most strenuously she scoured the countryside; pried into houses; + popped her head into stable doors. This woman nothing spared herself; in + the result, at the end of two days, was considerably dejected. For it was + clear to her that the Rose had not strayed, but had been stolen; was not + concealed in the vicinity of Herons' Holt, but had been spirited to the + safety of many miles. She was driven to accept Mr. Brunger's opinion—the + Rose had been stolen by some eager and unscrupulous breeder to be used for + gross purposes. + </p> + <p> + It was upon the evening of the second day in paradise that this woman + settled upon this gloomy conclusion. Gloomy it was, and desperately, + sitting in her bedroom that night, the masterly woman battled for some way + to circumvent it. To that entry made in her diary on the night of her + arrival she had added two further sentences: + </p> + <p> + <i>“Hate that baby-faced Humfray chit.” </i> + </p> + <p> + “Certain cannot stick unless find cat.” + </p> + <p> + Opening her diary now she gazed upon these entries; chewed them. They were + bitter to the taste. To agony at what she had lost was added mortification + at seeing another in her place; and rankling in this huge wound was the + poison of the knowledge that she could not win back. Circumstances were + too strong. The cat was not to be found, and—stabbing thought—“certain + cannot stick unless find cat.” + </p> + <p> + This way and that the masterly woman twisted in search of a means to + circumvent her position. It might be done by accomplishing the overthrow + of this baby-faced chit. If the baby-faced chit could be made to displease + Mr. Marrapit and be turned out, it would surely be possible, being ready + at hand, to take her place. But how could the baby-faced chit be made to + err? + </p> + <p> + This way and that Mrs. Major twisted and could find no means. Always she + was forced back to the brick-wall fact—salvation lay only in finding + the cat. That would accomplish everything. She would have succeeded where + the baby-faced chit had failed; she would have proved her devotion; she, + would have earned, not a doubt of it, the reward of re-entry into paradise + that Mr. Marrapit in his gratitude would more than offer—would press + upon her. + </p> + <p> + But the cat was not to be found. + </p> + <p> + Beating up against the desperate barrier of that thought, Mrs. Major + groaned aloud as she paced the room, threw up her arms in her despair. The + action caused her to swerve; with hideous violence she crashed her + stockinged foot against the leg of the wash-stand. + </p> + <p> + Impossible to tell how far will spread the ripples of the lightest action + we may toss upon the sea of life. The stunning agony in this woman's toes, + as, hopping to the bed, she sat and nursed them, with the swiftness of + thought presented to her a solution of her difficulty that struck her + staring with excitement. + </p> + <p> + Her first thought in her throbbing pain was of remedy for the bruise. + “Bruise” brought involuntarily to her mind the picture of a chemist's shop + in the Edgware Road, not far from Angel Street, whose window she had seen + filled with little boxes of “Bruisine,” the newest specific for abrasions. + Thence her thoughts, by direct passage, jumped to the time when last she + had noticed the shop—she had been returning from a stroll by way of + Sussex Gardens. And it was while mentally retracing that walk down Sussex + Gardens that Mrs. Major lit plump upon the solution of her difficulty. She + had noticed, let out for a run from No. 506, an orange cat that was so + precisely the image of the Rose of Sharon that she had stopped to stroke + it for dear memory's sake. Often since then she had spoken to it; every + time had been the more struck by its extraordinary resemblance to the + Rose. She had reflected that, seen together, she could not have told them + apart. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major forgot the throbbing of her abrased toes. Her brows knitted by + concentration of thought, very slowly the masterly woman concluded her + disrobing. Each private garment that she stripped and laid aside marked a + forward step in the indomitable purpose she had conceived. As her fingers + drew the most private from her person, leaving it naked, so from her plan + did her masterly mind draw the last veil that filmed it, leaving it clear. + When the Jaeger nightdress fell comfortably about her, her purpose too was + presentable and warm. + </p> + <p> + Every day and every night, every hour of every day and night, ripples from + unknown splashes are setting towards us. From this masterly woman, in + process of toilet, ripples were setting towards a modest and unsuspecting + cat lying in sweet slumber at 506 Sussex Gardens, off the Edgware Road. + </p> + <p> + For the masterly woman had thus determined—she would have that cat + that was the Rose's second self. The Rose was in the hands of some villain + breeder and would never be returned; small fear of discovery under that + head. This cat was the Rose's second self; differences that Mr. Marrapit + might discover, lack of affection that he might notice, could be + attributed to the adventures through which the Rose had passed since her + abduction. Under this head, indeed, Mrs. Major did not anticipate great + difficulty. Similar cats are more similar than similar dogs. They have + not, as dogs have, the distinguishing marks of character and + demonstrativeness. In any event, as the masterly woman assured herself, + she ran no peril even if her plot failed. She would say she had found the + cat, and if Mr. Marrapit were convinced it was not his Rose—well, + she had made a mistake, that was all. + </p> + <h3> + V. + </h3> + <p> + Upon the morrow, playing her hand with masterly skill, Mrs. Major sought + interview with Mr. Marrapit. With telling dabs of her pocket handkerchief + at her eyes, with telling sniffs of her masterly nose, she expressed the + fear that she had outstayed his kindness in receiving her. He had granted + her request—he had let her come to Herons' Holt; but two days had + passed and she had not found his Rose. True, if she had longer she could + more thoroughly search; but as an honest woman she must admit that she had + been given her chance, had failed. + </p> + <p> + Upon a wailing note she ended: “I must go.” + </p> + <p> + “Cancel that intention,” Mr. Marrapit told her. Her honesty smote this + man. Had he misjudged her? + </p> + <p> + She smothered a sniff in her handkerchief: “I must go. I must go. I have + seen that you regard me with suspicion. Oh, you have reason, I know; but I + cannot bear it.” + </p> + <p> + “Remove that impression,” spoke Mr. Marrapit. He <i>had</i> misjudged this + woman; he was convinced of it. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major gave her answer in the form of two smothered sniffs and a third + that, eluding her handkerchief, escaped free and loud—a telling + sniff that advertised her distress; wrung Mr. Marrapit's emotions. + </p> + <p> + He continued: “Mrs. Major, at a future time we will discuss the painful + affair to which you make reference. At present I am too preoccupied by the + calamity that has desolated my hearth. Meanwhile, I suspend judgment. I + place suspicion behind me. I regard you only as she whom my Rose loved.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish me to stay a little longer?” asked Mrs. Major, trembling. + </p> + <p> + “That is my wish. Continue to prosecute your search.” + </p> + <p> + Trembling yet more violently Mrs. Major said: “I will stay. I had not + dared to suppose I might stop more than two days. I brought nothing with + me. May I go to London to get clothes? I will return to-morrow morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “Early to-morrow would be more convenient. I have other things to do in + London.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow, then,” Mr. Marrapit agreed. + </p> + <p> + At the door Mrs. Major turned. Her great success at this interview + emboldened her to a second stroke. “There is one other thing I would like + to say, if I dared.” + </p> + <p> + “Be fearless.” + </p> + <p> + She plunged. “If Heaven should grant that I may find the Rose, I implore + you not to distress me by offering me the reward you are holding out. I + could not take it. I know you can ill afford it. Further than that, to + have the joy of giving you back your Rose would be reward enough for me. + And to know that she was safe with you, though I—I should never see + her again, that would make me happy till the end of my days.” + </p> + <p> + Her nobility smote Mr. Marrapit. Cruelly, shamefully, he <i>had</i> + misjudged her. Her handkerchief pressed to her eyes, very gently Mrs. + Major closed the door; very soberly mounted the stairs. + </p> + <p> + Out of earshot, she walked briskly to her room; drew forth her diary; in a + bold hand inscribed: + </p> + <p> + “<i>Absolutely certain shall stick.</i>” + </p> + <p> + The masterly woman lunched in town. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <h3> + Mrs. Major Finds The Lock. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + By six o'clock Mrs. Major had all ready for her adventure. In the little + room at Angel Street she deposited a newly purchased basket; at eight + o'clock started for Sussex Gardens. + </p> + <p> + Twice, while passing down the terrace at about nine, she had seen the cat + she now pursued let out for what was doubtless its nightly run. + </p> + <p> + On each occasion she had observed the same order of events, and she judged + them to be of regular occurrence. Out from No. 506 had stepped a tall man, + long-haired, soft-hatted, poetically bearded. Behind him had followed the + cat. The cat had trotted across the road to the gardens; the tall man had + walked slowly round the enclosure. Returning, he had called. The cat had + walked soberly forth from the railings and the pair had re-entered the + house. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + Matters fell this night precisely as the sapient woman had conjectured. + Shortly before nine she took up position against the railings in a dark + patch that marked the middle point between two lamps, some doors above + 506. No tremor agitated her form; in action this woman was most masterly. + </p> + <p> + A church clock struck a full clear note, another and another. The + after-humming of the ninth had scarcely died when the blackness that lay + beneath the fanlight of 506 was split by a thin rod of yellow light. + Instantly this widened, served for a moment to silhouette a tall figure, + then vanished as the door slammed. The tall figure stepped on to the + pavement; a cat at its feet trod sedately across the road. The tall figure + turned; in a moment was meditatively pacing the pavement opposite where + Mrs. Major stood. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major gave him twenty yards. Then she hurried along the railings to + where the cat had tripped. Six feet inwards, delicately scratching the + soil beneath a bush, she espied it. + </p> + <p> + The masterly woman pressed her face between the rails; stretched a + snapping finger and thumb; in an intense voice murmured, “Tweetikins + puss!” + </p> + <p> + Tweetikins puss continued thoughtfully to turn the soil. This was a nicely + mannered cat. + </p> + <p> + “Tweety little puss!” cooed Mrs. Major. “Tweety pussikins! puss, puss!” + </p> + <p> + Tweety pussikins turned to regard her. Mrs. Major moistened her finger and + thumb; snapped frantically. “Puss, puss—tweety pussy!” + </p> + <p> + Tweety pussy advanced till the snapping fingers were within an inch of its + nose. + </p> + <p> + “Pussikins, pussikins!” implored Mrs. Major. + </p> + <p> + Pussikins very deliberately seated itself; coiled its fine tail about its + feet; regarded Mrs. Major with a sphinx-like air. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major pressed till the iron railings cut her shoulders. She stretched + the forefinger of her extended arm; at great peril of slipping forward and + rasping her nose along the rails effected to scratch the top of the + sphinx's head. + </p> + <p> + “Puss, puss! Tweety, <i>tweety</i> puss!” + </p> + <p> + By not so much as a blink did tweety puss stir a muscle. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major was in considerable pain. Her bent legs were cramped; the + railings bit her shoulder; her neck ached: “Tweety little puss! Tweety + puss! Puss! <i>Drat</i> the beast!” + </p> + <p> + In great physical agony and in heightening mental distress—since + time was fleeting and the cat as statuesque as ever,—Mrs. Major + again dratted it twice with marked sincerity and a third time as a sharp + sound advertised the splitting of a secret portion of her wear against the + tremendous strain her unnatural position placed upon it. Unable longer to + endure the pain of her outstretched arm, she dropped her hand to earth; + with a masterly effort resumed her smiling face and silky tone. Repeating + her endearing cooings, she scratched the soil, enticing to some hidden + mystery. + </p> + <p> + The demon of curiosity impelled this cat's doom. For a moment it eyed the + scratching fingers; then stretched forward its head to investigation. + </p> + <p> + The time for gentle methods was gone. Mrs. Major gripped the downy scruff + of the doomed creature's neck; dragged the surprised animal forward; + rudely urged it through the railings; tucked it beneath her cloak; sped + down the road in the same direction that the tall figure had taken. + </p> + <p> + But where the tall figure had turned round the gardens Mrs. Major kept + straight. Along a main street, into a by-street, round a turning, across a + square, up a terrace, over the Edgware Road—so into the + bed-sitting-room at Angel Street. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + Speeding by train to Herons' Holt upon the following morning, beside her + the basket wherein lay the key that was to open paradise, Mrs. Major + slightly altered her plans. It had been her intention at once to burst + upon Mr. Marrapit with her prize—at once to put to desperate test + whether or no he would accept it as the Rose. But before Paltley Hill was + reached the masterly woman had modified this order. The cat she had + abducted was so much the facsimile of the Rose that for the first time it + occurred to her that, like the Rose, it might be valuable, and that a + noisy hue and cry might be raised upon its loss. + </p> + <p> + If this so happened, and especially if Mr. Marrapit were doubtful that the + cat was his Rose, it would be dangerous to let him know that she had made + her discovery in London. Supposing he heard that a London cat, similar to + the Rose in appearance, were missing, and remembered that this cat—of + which from the first he had had doubts—was filched from London? That + might turn success into failure. The chances of such events were remote, + but the masterly woman determined to run no risks. She decided that on + arrival at + </p> + <p> + Paltley Hill she would conceal her cat; on the morrow, starting out from + Herons' Hill to renew her search, would find it and with it come bounding + to the house. + </p> + <p> + As to where she should hide it she had no difficulty in determining. She + knew of but one place, and she was convinced she could not have known a + better. The ruined hut in the copse off the Shipley Road, whither in the + dear, dead days beyond recall she had stolen for Old Tommish purposes, was + in every way safe and suitable. None visited there at ordinary times; now + that the country-side was no longer being searched for the Rose save by + herself, it was as safe as ever. She would leave her cat there this day + and night. + </p> + <p> + Upon this determination the remarkable woman acted; before proceeding to + Herons' Holt secured her cat in that inner room of the hut where, but a + few days previously, the Rose herself had lain. + </p> + <p> + When she reached the house a maid told her that Mr. Marrapit was closeted + with young Mr. Wyvern. + </p> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <p> + During the afternoon Mrs. Major visited her cat, taking it milk. That + evening, Mary and Margaret being elsewhere together, she was able to enjoy + a quiet hour with Mr. Marrapit. + </p> + <p> + He was heavily depressed: “A week has passed, Mrs. Major. Something tells + me I never again will see my Rose. This day I have sent young Mr. Wyvern + and Mr. Brunger after my nephew George. The clue he claims to know is my + last chance. I have no faith in it. Put not your trust—” Mr. + Marrapit allowed a melancholy sigh to conclude his sentence. This man had + suffered much. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major clasped her hands. “Oh, do not give up hope, Mr. Marrapit. + Something tells me you <i>will</i> see her—soon, very soon.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit sighed. “You are always encouraging, Mrs. Major.” + </p> + <p> + “Something tells me that I have reason to be, Mr. Marrapit. Last night I + dreamed that the Rose was found.” The encouraging woman leaned forward; + said impressively, “I dreamed that I found her.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit did not respond to her tone. Melancholy had this man in + leaden grip. “I lose hope,” he said. “Man is born unto trouble as the + sparks fly upward. Do not trust in dreams.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but I <i>do</i>!” Mrs. Major said with girlish impulsiveness. “I <i>do</i>. + I always have. My dreams so often come true. Do not lose hope, Mr. + Marrapit.” She continued with a beautiful air of timidity: “Oh, Mr. + Marrapit, I know I am only here on sufferance, but your careworn air + emboldens me to suggest—it might keep your poor mind from thinking—a + game of backgammon such as we used to play before—” She sighed. + </p> + <p> + “I should like it,” Mr. Marrapit answered. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major arranged the board; drew Mr. Marrapit's favourite chair to the + table; rattled the dice. After a few moves, “Oh, you're not beating me as + you used to,” she said archly. + </p> + <p> + “I am out of practice,” Mr. Marrapit confessed. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major paused in the act of throwing her dice. “Out of practice! But + surely Miss Humfray plays with you?” + </p> + <p> + “She does not.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major gave a sigh that suggested more than she dared say. + </p> + <p> + She sighed again when the game was concluded. Mr. Marrapit sat on. “Quite + like old times,” Mrs. Major murmured. “Good night, Mr. Marrapit; and don't + lose hope. Remember my dream.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite like old times,” Mr. Marrapit murmured. + </p> + <p> + The masterly woman ascended the stairs rubbing her hands. + </p> + <h3> + V. + </h3> + <p> + Mrs. Major ate an excellent breakfast upon the following morning. She was + upon the very threshold of winning into paradise, but not a tremor of + nervousness did she betray or feel. This was a superb woman. + </p> + <p> + At eleven she left the house and took a walk—rehearsing the manner + in which she had arranged to burst in upon Mr. Marrapit with the cat, + checking again the arguments with which she would counter and lull any + doubts he might raise. + </p> + <p> + At twelve she entered the hut. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major was in the very act of leaving the building, the cat beneath + her arm, when a sound of voices and footsteps held her upon the threshold. + She listened; the sounds drew near. She closed the door; the sounds, now + loud, approached the hut. She ran to the inner room; a hand was laid upon + the outer latch. She closed the door; applied her eye to a crack; George + and Mary entered. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <h3> + Mrs. Major Gets The Key. + </h3> + <p> + George carried a basket. He laid it upon the floor. Then he turned and + kissed his Mary. He put his arms about her; held her to him for a moment + in a tremendous hug; pressed his lips to hers; held her away, drinking + love from her pretty eyes; again kissed her and again hugged. + </p> + <p> + She gasped: “I shall crack in half in a minute if you will be so + ridiculous.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed; let her free. He led to the tottering bench that stood across + the room, sat her there, and taking her little gloved hand patted it + between his. + </p> + <p> + “Fine, Mary,” he said, “to see you again! Fine! It seems months!” + </p> + <p> + “Years,” Mary whispered, giving one of the patting hands a little squeeze. + “Years. And you never sent me a line. I've not had a word with you since + you came up on the lawn that day and said you had passed your exam. You + simply <i>bolted</i> off, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “You got my letter, though, this morning?” George said. He dropped her + hand; fumbled in his pocket for his pipe. He was becoming a little nervous + at the matter before him. + </p> + <p> + Mary told him: “Well, that was <i>nothing</i>. It was such a <i>frantic</i> + letter! What is all the mystery about?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you the whole story.” George got from the bench and began to + pace, filling his pipe. + </p> + <p> + With a tender little smile Mary watched her George's dear face. Then, as + he still paced, lit his pipe, gustily puffed, but did not speak, a tiny + troubled pucker came between her eyes. There was a suspicion of a silly + little tremor in her voice when at last she asked: “Anything wrong, old + man?” + </p> + <p> + George inhaled a vast breath of smoke; let it go in a misty cloud. With a + quick action he laid his pipe upon the table; sprang to her side. His + right arm he put about her, in his left hand he clasped both hers. + “Nothing wrong,” he cried brightly; “not a bit wrong. Mary, it's a game, a + plot, a dickens of a game.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, tell me,” she said, beaming. + </p> + <p> + “It wants your help.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, tell me, tell me, stupid.” + </p> + <p> + “You will help?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, if I can. Oh, do tell me, Georgie!” + </p> + <p> + “I'll show you, that's quicker.” + </p> + <p> + He sprang to the basket; unstrapped the lid; threw it back. A most + exquisite orange head upreared. A queenly back arched. A beautiful figure + stepped forth. + </p> + <p> + “<i>George!</i>” Mary cried. “George! <i>The Rose!</i> You've found her!” + </p> + <p> + George gave a nervous little crack of laughter. “I never lost her.” + </p> + <p> + “Never lost her! No, but she's been—” + </p> + <p> + “I've had her all the time!” + </p> + <p> + “<i>All the</i>—” + </p> + <p> + “I took her!” + </p> + <p> + “You <i>took</i> her! <i>You</i>—took her! Oh, George, speak sense! + Whatever can you mean?” Mary had jumped to her feet when first the Rose + stepped forth; now was close to her George—face a little white, + perplexed; hands clasped. + </p> + <p> + He cried: “Sweetest dove of a Mary, don't talk like that. Sit down and + I'll tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “But what have you done?—what have you <i>done?</i>” + </p> + <p> + The true woman was in that question. How they jostle us, these women, with + their timid little flutterings when we are trying to put a case before + them in our manlike way!—first spoiling their palate with all the + sugar, so that they may not taste the powder. + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you what I've done if you'll only sit down.” + </p> + <p> + She went to the seat. + </p> + <p> + “Now laugh, Mary. You simply must laugh. I can't tell you while you look + like that. Laugh, or I shall tickle you.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed merrily—over her first bewilderment. “But, Georgie, it's + something fearful that you've done, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + He sat beside her; took her hands. “It's terrific. Look here. From the + beginning. When I told old Marrapit I'd passed my exam. I asked for that + 500 pounds—you know—to start us.” + </p> + <p> + She nodded. + </p> + <p> + “He refused. He got in an awful state at the bare idea. I asked him to + lend it—he got worse. Mary, he simply would not give or advance a + penny: you know what that meant?” + </p> + <p> + The dejected droop of her mouth gave answer. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, I concocted a plot. Old Wyvern helped me—Professor + Wyvern, you know. I thought that if I took his cat, his beloved Rose, and + lay low with her for a bit, he would—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, <i>George!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing—finish.” + </p> + <p> + “—He would be certain to offer a reward. And I guessed he wouldn't + mind what he paid. So I thought I'd take the cat and hang on till he + offered L500, or till I thought he'd be so glad to get the Rose back that + he'd do what I want out of pure gratitude. Then I'd bring it back and get + the money—say I'd found it, you see, and—and—wait a bit—for + heaven's sake don't speak yet.” George saw his Mary was bursting with + words; as he judged the look in her eyes they were words he had reason to + fear. Shirking their hurt, he hurried along. “Don't speak yet. Get the + money, and then we'd save up and pay him back and then tell him. There!” + </p> + <p> + She burst out: “But, George—how <i>could</i> you? Oh, it's wrong—it's + <i>awful!</i> Why, do you know what people would call you? They'd say + you're a—yes, they'd say you're a—” + </p> + <p> + He snatched the terrible word from her lips with a kiss. + </p> + <p> + “They'd say I was a fool if I let Marrapit do me out of what is my own. + That's the point, Mary. It's my money. I'm only trying to get what is my + own. I felt all along you would see that; otherwise—” He hesitated. + He was in difficulties. Manlike, he suddenly essayed to shoot the + responsibility upon the woman. “—Otherwise I wouldn't have done it,” + he ended. + </p> + <p> + His Mary had the wit to slip from the net, to dig him a vital thrust with + the trident: “If you thought that, why didn't you tell me?” + </p> + <p> + The thrust staggered him; set him blustering: “Tell you! Tell you! How + could I tell you? I did it on the spur of the moment.” + </p> + <p> + “You could have written. Oh, Georgie, it's wrong. It <i>is</i> wrong.” + </p> + <p> + He took up the famous sex attack. “Wrong! Wrong! That's just like a woman + to say that! You won't listen to reason. You jump at a thing and shut your + eyes and your ears.” + </p> + <p> + “I <i>will</i> listen to reason. But you haven't <i>got</i> any reason. If + you had, why didn't you tell me before you did it?” + </p> + <p> + He continued the sex assault; flung out a declamatory hand. “There you go! + Why didn't I tell you? I've told you why. I tell you I did it on the spur + of the moment—” + </p> + <p> + But she still struggled. “Yes, that's just it. You didn't think. Now that + you are thinking you must see it in its proper light. You <i>must</i> see + it's wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't. I don't in the least.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, why are you getting in such a state about it?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not getting in a state!” + </p> + <p> + “You are.” His Mary fumbled at her waist-belt. “You are. You're—saying—all + sorts—of—things. You—said—I—was—just—like—a—woman.” + Out came this preposterous Mary's pocket handkerchief; into it went Mary's + little nose. + </p> + <p> + George sprang to her. “Oh, Mary! Oh, I say, don't cry, old girl!” + </p> + <p> + The nose came out for a minute, a very shiny little nose. “I can't help + crying. This is an—an <i>awful</i> business.” The shiny little nose + disappeared again. + </p> + <p> + George tried to pull away the handkerchief, tried to put his face against + hers. A bony little shoulder poked obstinately up and prevented him. He + burst out desperately. “Oh, damn! Oh, what a beast I am! I'm always making + you cry. Oh, damn! Oh, Mary! I can't do anything right. I've had an awful + time these days—and I was longing to see you,—and now I've + called you names and been a brute.” + </p> + <p> + His Mary gulped the tears that were making the shiny little nose every + minute more shiny. Never could she bear to hear her George accuse himself. + Upon a tremendous sniff, “You haven't been a brute,” she said, “—a + bit. It's my—my fault for annoying you when I don't properly + understand. Perhaps I don't understand.” + </p> + <p> + He put an arm about her. “You don't, Mary. Really and truly you don't. Let + me tell you. Don't say a word till I've done. I'll tell you first why I've + brought the Rose here. You see, I can't keep her anywhere else. I'm being + chased about all over England. Bill and that infernal detective are after + me now, and I simply must hide the beastly cat where it will be safe. + Well, it's safest here—here, right under their noses, where nobody + will ever look because everyone thinks it miles away by now. I can't stop + near it, because I must be away on this clue they think I've got—especially + now I've got mixed up with the detectives: see? So I want you just to come + up from the house every day and feed the cat. You'll be perfectly safe, + and it can't be for very long. You would do that, wouldn't you? Oh, Mary, + think what it means to us!” + </p> + <p> + She polished the shiny little nose: “I'd do anything that would help you. + But, Georgie, it's not <i>right</i>; it's <i>wrong</i>. Oh, it is wrong! I + don't care <i>what</i> you say.” + </p> + <p> + “But you haven't heard what I've got to say.” + </p> + <p> + “I have. I've been listening for hours.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, Mary. No, I haven't explained yet. You're too serious about it. + It isn't a bit serious. It's only a frightful rag. And nobody will suffer, + because he'll get his money back. And, think—think what it means. + Now, do listen!” + </p> + <p> + She listened, and her George poured forth a flood of arguments that were + all mixed and tangled with love. She could not separate the two. This + argument that he was right was delectably sugared with the knowledge that + the thing was done for her; that delicious picture of the future, when it + was swallowed, proved to be an argument in favour of his purpose. Love and + argument, argument and love—she could not separate them, and they + combined into a most exquisite sweetmeat. The arm her George had about her + was a base advantage over her. How doubt her George was right when against + her she could feel his heart! How be wiser than he when both her hands + were in that dear brown fist? + </p> + <p> + She was almost won when with a “So there you are!” he concluded. She had + been won if she had much longer remained beneath the drug of his dear, + gay, earnest words. + </p> + <p> + But when he ceased she came to. The little awakening sigh she gave was the + little fluttering sigh of a patient when the anesthetic leaves the senses + clear. + </p> + <p> + She looked at her George. Horrible to dim the sparkling in those dear + eyes, radiant with excitement, with love. Yet she did it. The goody-goody + little soul of her put its hands about the little weakness of her and held + it tight. + </p> + <p> + She said: “I do, <i>do</i> see what you mean, Georgie. But I do, <i>do</i> + think it's wrong.” + </p> + <p> + And then the little hands and the brown fist changed places. For she put + one hand below the fist, and with the other patted as she gave her little + homily—goody-goody little arguments, Sunday-school little arguments, + mother-and-child little arguments. And very timidly she concluded: “You + are not angry, Georgie, are you?” + </p> + <p> + This splendid George of hers gave her a tremendous kiss. “You're a little + saint; you're a little idiot; you're a little angel; you're a little + goose,” he told her. “But I love you all the more for it, although I'd + like to shake you. I <i>would</i> like to shake you, Mary. You're ruining + the finest joke that ever was tried; and you're ruining our only chance of + marrying; and goodness only knows what's going to happen now.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed ever so happily. It was intoxicating to bend this dear George; + intoxicating to have the love that came of bending him. + </p> + <p> + “But I <i>am</i> right, am I not?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + George said: “Look here, saint and goose. I'm simply not going to chuck + the thing and all our happiness like this. I'll make a bargain. Saint and + goose, we'll say you are right, but you shall have one night to think over + it. One night. And this afternoon you will go to Professor Wyvern and tell + him everything and hear what he thinks about it—what an outsider + thinks: see? Yes, that's it. Don't even spend a night over it. Have a talk + with Professor Wyvern, and if you still think I ought to chuck it, write + to me at once, and to-morrow I'll come down and creep in unto my uncle + with the cat, and say: 'Uncle, I have sinned.' There, Mary, that's agreed, + isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “That's agreed,” she joined. “Yes, that's fair.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at his watch. “I must cut. I must catch the one-thirty train. I + must calm Bill and the 'tec. in case you—Mary, <i>do</i> weigh + whatever Wyvern says, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + She promised; gave her George her hope that the Professor would make her + see differently. + </p> + <p> + “That's splendid of you!” George cried. “Saint and goose, that's sweet of + you. Mary, I'm sure he will. Look here, I must fly; come half-way to the + station. The cat's all right here. Pop up and feed her this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + They pressed the door behind them; hurried down the path. + </p> + <p> + It was precisely as they turned from the lane into the high-road, that + Mrs. Major, a cat beneath her arm, went bounding wildly through the copse + towards Herons' Holt. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <h3> + George Has A Shot At Paradise. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + Two hours after George, leaving his Mary near Paltley Hill railway + station, had got back to his inn at Temple Colney, a very agitated young + man booked from Temple Colney to Paltley Hill and was now speeding between + them in the train. + </p> + <p> + He had the carriage to himself. Sometimes he sat, hands deep in pockets, + legs thrust before him, staring with wide and frightened eyes at the + opposite seat. Sometimes he paced wildly from door to door, chin sunk on + breast, in his eyes still that look of frantic apprehension. Sometimes he + would snatch from his pocket a telegram; glare at it; pucker his brows + over it; groan over it. + </p> + <p> + George was this feverish young man. + </p> + <p> + On his table in his room at the inn he had found this telegram awaiting + him. He had broken the envelope, had read, and immediately a tickling + feeling over his scalp had sent a dreadful shiver through his frame: + </p> + <p> + “<i>Return at once. Cat found.—Marrapit.</i>” + </p> + <p> + He had plumped into a chair. + </p> + <p> + For a space the capacity for thought was gone. In his brain was only a + heavy drumming that numbed. Beneath the window a laden cart went thumping + by—thump, thump; thump, thump—cat found; cat found. The cart + drubbed away and was lost. Then the heavy ticking of the clock edged into + his senses—tick, tock; tick, tock—cat found; cat found. + </p> + <p> + Then thought came. + </p> + <p> + Cat found!—then all was lost. Cat found!—then some damned + prowling idiot had chanced upon the hut. + </p> + <p> + This miserable George had felt certain that Professor Wyvern's arguments + would overcome his Mary's scruples. That little meeting with his Mary had + made him the more desperately anxious for success so that he might win her + and have her. And now—cat found!—all over. Cat found! His + pains for nothing! + </p> + <p> + Then came the support of a hope, and to this, hurrying back to the + station, speeding now in the train, most desperately he clung. The Rose, + he struggled to assure himself, had not been found at all. It was + impossible that anyone had been to the hut. Some idiot had found a cat + that answered to the Rose's description, and had telegraphed the discovery + to his uncle; or someone had brought a cat to his uncle and his uncle was + himself temporarily deluded. + </p> + <p> + Wildly praying that this might be so, George leaped from the train at + Paltley Hill; went rushing to the hut. Outside, for full ten minutes he + dared not push the door. What if he saw no Rose? What if all were indeed + lost? + </p> + <p> + He braced himself; pushed; entered. + </p> + <p> + At once he gave a whoop, and another whoop, and a third. He snapped his + fingers; cavorted through the steps of a wild dance that considerably + alarmed the noble cat that watched him. + </p> + <p> + For there was the Rose! + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + When George had indulged his transports till he was calmer, he took a + moment's swift thought to decide his action. + </p> + <p> + Since someone was bouncing a spurious Rose on his uncle, he must delay, he + decided, no longer—must dash in with the true Rose at once. Surely + his uncle's delight would be sufficient to arouse in him the gratitude + that would produce the sum necessary for Runnygate! + </p> + <p> + Previously, when he had reflected upon the plan he should follow on + restoring the cat, he had been a little alarmed at the difficulties he + foresaw. Chief among them was the fact that his uncle, and the detective, + and heaven knew who else besides, would require a plausible and + circumstantial story of how the Rose had been found—might wish to + prosecute the thief. How to invent this story had caused George enormous + anxiety. He shuddered whenever he thought upon it; had steadily put it + behind him till the matter must be faced. + </p> + <p> + But this and all other difficulties he now sent flying. The relief of + freedom from the badgering he had endured since he abducted the Rose; the + enormous relief of finding that the Rose was not, after all, gone from the + hut; the tearing excitement of the thought that he had his very fingers + upon success—these combined to make him reckless of truth and blind + to doubts. He relied upon his uncle's transports of delight on recovering + the Rose—he felt that in the delirious excitement of that joy + everything must go well and unquestioned with him who had brought it + about. As to his Mary's scruples—time enough for them when the + matter was done. + </p> + <p> + This was George's feeling at the end of his rapid cogitation. A heartless + chuckle he gave as he thought of Bill and Mr. Brunger at the inn, closely + dogging the landlord; then he seized the cat and in a second was bounding + through the copse to Herons' Holt as Mrs. Major, a short space ago, had + bounded before him. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> + <h3> + Of Twin Cats: Of Ananias And Of Sapphira. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + The maid who opened the door told George that the master awaited him in + the study. + </p> + <p> + Nothing of George's excitement had left him during the rush down to the + house. His right arm tucked about the cat he carried, with his left hand + impulsively he pushed open the door; with a spring eagerly entered. + </p> + <p> + Even as he stepped over the threshold the bubbling words that filled his + mouth melted; did not shape. In the atmosphere of the apartment there was + that sinister element of some unseen force which we detect by medium of + the almost atrophied sense that in dogs we call instinct. As dogs will + check and grow suspicious in the presence of death that they cannot see, + but feel, so my George checked and was struck apprehensive by the sudden + sensation of an invisible calamity. + </p> + <p> + The quick glance he gave increased the sudden chill of his spirits. He saw + Mr. Marrapit standing against the mantelshelf—dressing-gowned, hands + behind back, face most intensely grim; his glance shifted and he froze, + for it rested upon Mrs. Major—hidden by a table from the waist + downwards, prim, bolt upright in a chair, face most intensely grim; his + eyes passed her and now goggled in new bewilderment, for they took in his + Mary—seated upon the extreme edge of the sofa, a white tooth upon + lower lip, face most intensely woebegone. + </p> + <p> + George stood perfectly still. + </p> + <p> + Like the full, deep note of a huge bell, Mr. Marrapit's voice came booming + through the fearful atmosphere. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” boomed Mr. Marrapit. + </p> + <p> + The cat beneath George's arm wriggled. + </p> + <p> + Boom and wriggle touched George back to action from the fear into which + the invisible something and the fearful panorama of faces had struck him. + </p> + <p> + After all—let have happened what might have happened—he had + the cat! + </p> + <p> + He swung the creature round into his hands; outstretched it. He took a + step forward. “Uncle!” he cried, “uncle, I have found the Rose!” + </p> + <p> + “Hem!” said Mrs. Major on a short jerk. + </p> + <p> + From Mary there came a violent double sniff. + </p> + <p> + George stood perfectly still; the unseen horror he felt to be rushing upon + him, but it remained invisible. With considerably less confidence he + repeated: + </p> + <p> + “The Rose, uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “Hem!” said Mrs. Major on a yet shorter jerk; from Mary a double sniff yet + more violent. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit raised a white hand. + </p> + <p> + “Hark!” said Mr. Marrapit. + </p> + <p> + Alarmed, his nerves unstrung, with straining ears George listened. The + tense atmosphere made him ajump for outward sounds. + </p> + <p> + “Hark!” boomed Mr. Marrapit; lowered the warning hand; at George directed + a long finger. “Are you not afraid that you will hear upon the threshold + the footsteps of the young men who will come in, wind you up, and carry + you out?” + </p> + <p> + “What on earth—?” George asked. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit poked the extended finger towards him. “Ananias!” he boomed. + He poked at my quivering Mary. “Sapphira!” + </p> + <p> + “Hem!” said Mrs. Major. “Hem!” + </p> + <p> + George recovered. “Is this a joke?” he asked. “I tell you—look for + yourself—I have found the Rose.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit stooped to Mrs. Major's lap, hidden by the table. With a most + queenly creature in his arms he stood upright. “Here is the Rose,” said + he. + </p> + <p> + Instantly George forgot all that had immediately passed. Instantly he + remembered that a bogus Rose was what he fully expected to see. Instantly + fear fled. Instantly assurance returned. + </p> + <p> + In a full and confident note, “Uncle,” he said, “you have been deceived!” + </p> + <p> + His words let loose a torrent upon him. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit with one arm clasped to his breast the cat he had raised from + Mrs. Major's lap. Alternately raising and lowering the other hand, his + white hair seeming to stream, his eyes flashing, he took on, to George's + eyes, the appearance of an enraged prophet bellowing over the cities of + the Plain. + </p> + <p> + “I <i>have</i> been deceived!” he cried. “You are right. Though you have + the forked tongue of an adder, yet you speak truly. I have been deceived. + Woe is me for I have been most wickedly deceived by those who eat of my + bread, who lie beneath my roof. I have cherished vipers in my bosom, and + they have stung me. Bitterly have I been deceived.” + </p> + <p> + He paused. A low moan from Mrs. Major, handkerchief to eyes, voiced the + effect of his speech upon her; in racking sniffs Mary's emotion found + vent. But upon George the outburst had a cooling result—he was + certain of his ground. + </p> + <p> + He said solidly: “That's all rot.” + </p> + <p> + “Rot!” cried Mr. Marrapit. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, rot. You work yourself up into such a state when you get like this, + that you don't know what you're talking about—vipers and all that + kind of thing. When you've calmed down and understand things, perhaps + you'll be sorry. I tell you you've been deceived. That's not the Rose + you've got hold of. This is the Rose. Someone has made a fool of you. + Someone—” + </p> + <p> + Between two violent sniffs, “Oh, George, don't, don't!” came from his + Mary. + </p> + <p> + Startled, George checked. + </p> + <p> + “Monster, be careful,” said Mr. Marrapit. “Beware how much deeper you + enmire yourself in the morass of your evil. Put down that miserable + creature you hold. I place Mrs. Major's Rose beside it. Look upon them.” + </p> + <p> + George looked. With staring eyes he gazed upon the two cats. With arched + tails they advanced to exchange compliments, and the nearer they stood + together the less Rose-like became the cat he had brought into the room. + For the cat that Mr. Marrapit had produced—Mrs. Major's cat, as he + called it—was the Rose herself; could be none other, and none other + (when thus placed alongside) could be she. + </p> + <p> + Struck unconscious to his surroundings by this appalling spectacle, George + slowly stooped towards the cats as though hypnotised by the orange coats. + His eyes goggled further from his head; the blood went thumping in his + temples. He was aghast and horror-struck with the stupefaction that comes + of effort to disbelieve the eyes. But he did disbelieve his eyes. How + possibly trust them when from the Rose's very bed he had taken the Rose + herself and held her till now when he produced her? He did disbelieve his + eyes. + </p> + <p> + He gave Mrs. Major's cat a careless pat. By an effort throwing a careless + tone into his voice, “A very good imitation,” he said. “Not at all unlike + the Rose!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit became an alarming sight. He intook an enormous breath that + swelled him dangerously. He opened his lips and the air rushed out with + roaring sound. Again he inspired, raised his clenched hands above his + head, stood like some great tottering image upon the brink of internal + explosion. + </p> + <p> + As upon a sudden thought, he checked the bursting words that threatened + from his lips; allowed his pent-up breath to escape inarticulate; to his + normal size and appearance shrank back when it was gone. + </p> + <p> + With an air of ebbing doubt, “Not at all unlike?” he questioned. + </p> + <p> + George replied briskly. He forced himself to take confidence, though every + moment made yet more difficult the struggle to disbelieve what his eyes + told him. “Not at all unlike,” he affirmed. “Very similar, in fact. Yes, I + should say very similar indeed.” + </p> + <p> + Still in the same tone of one who is being reluctantly convinced, Mr. + Marrapit again played Echo's part: “Very similar indeed? You grant that?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” George admitted frankly. “Certainly. I do not wonder you were + mistaken.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor I,” Mr. Marrapit smoothly replied. “Indeed, in Mrs. Major's cat I + detect certain signs which my Rose has long borne but which she has no + longer, if the cat you bring is she?” + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” said George. + </p> + <p> + “Certain signs,” Mr. Marrapit repeated, with the smoothness of flowing + oil, “which I recollect in my Rose. The mark, for example, where her left + ear was abrased by Mr. Wyvern's blood-thirsty bull-terrier.” + </p> + <p> + George stooped to the cats. Pointing, he cried triumphantly: “Yes, and + there is the mark!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Mr. Marrapit pronounced mildly. “Yes, but you are now looking at + Mrs. Major's cat.” + </p> + <p> + “Hem!” said Mrs. Major. “Hem!” + </p> + <p> + Like one who has stepped upon hot iron George started back, stared aghast. + A further “hem,” with which a chuckle was mixed, came from Mrs. Major; + from my collapsed Mary upon the edge of the sofa a sniff that was mingled + groan and sob. + </p> + <p> + George put a hand to his head. This young man's senses were ajostle and + awhirl. Well he remembered that mark which by disastrous blunder he had + indicated on Mrs. Major's cat; vainly he sought it on his own. Yet his was + the Rose. Was this a nightmare, then, and no true thing? He put his hand + to his head. + </p> + <p> + “Looking at Mrs. Major's cat,” repeated Mr. Marrapit, his tone smooth as + the trickle of oil. + </p> + <p> + George fought on. “Quite so. Quite so. I know that. That is what makes it + so extraordinary—that this cat which you call Mrs. Major's and think + is the Rose should have the very mark that our Rose had.” + </p> + <p> + “But our Rose has not—if that is she.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! not now,” George said impressively. “Not now. It healed. Healed + months ago. Don't you remember my saying one morning, 'The Rose's ear is + quite healed now'?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not, sir,” snapped Mr. Marrapit, with alarming sharpness. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said George. “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + “Hem!” fired Mrs. Major. “Hem! Hem!” + </p> + <p> + “That tail,” spoke Mr. Marrapit, a sinister hardness now behind the + oiliness. “Mark those tails.” + </p> + <p> + George marked. To this young man's disordered mind the room took on the + appearance of a forest of waving tails. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” rapped Mr. Marrapit. “You note those tails? Mrs. Major's cat has a + verdant tail, a bush-like tail. Yours has a rat tail. Do you recollect my + pride in the luxuriousness of the Rose's tail?” + </p> + <p> + George blundered along the path he had chosen. “Formerly,” he said, “not + latterly. Latterly, if you remember, there was a remarkable falling off in + the Rose's tail. Her tail moulted. It shed hairs. I remember worrying over + it. I remember—” + </p> + <p> + A voice from the sofa froze him. “Oh, George, don't, don't!” moaned his + Mary. + </p> + <p> + Recovering his horror, he turned stiffly upon her. “If you mean me, Miss + Humfray, you forget yourself. I do not understand you. Kindly recollect + that I have another name.” + </p> + <p> + The hideous frown he bent upon his Mary might well have advertised the + sincerity of his rebuke. He faced Mr. Marrapit, blundered on. “I remember + noticing how thin the Rose's tail was getting.” He gathered confidence, + pushed ahead. “You have forgotten those little points, sir. Upset by your + loss you have jumped at the first cat like the Rose that you have seen.” + He took new courage, became impressive. “You are making a fearful mistake, + sir—an awful mistake. A mistake at which you will shudder when you + look back—” + </p> + <p> + “Incredible!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit, swelling as a few moments earlier he had swollen, this time + burst to speech. He raised his clenched fists; in immense volume of sound + exploded. “Incredible!” + </p> + <p> + George misinterpreted; was shaken, but hurried on. “It is. I admit it. It + is an incredible likeness. But look again, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit gave instead a confused scream. + </p> + <p> + Alarmed, George made as if to plunge on with further protests. “George! + George!” from his Mary checked him. Furious, he turned upon her; and in + that moment Mr. Marrapit, recovering words, turned to Mrs. Major. + </p> + <p> + “As you have restored my treasure to my house, Mrs. Major, so now silence + this iniquitous man by telling him what you have told me. I implore speed. + Silence him. Utterly confound him. Stop him from further perjury before an + outraged Creator rains thunderbolts upon this roof.” + </p> + <p> + With a telling “Hem!” the masterly woman cleared for action. “I will, Mr. + Marrapit,” she bowed. She murmured “Rosie, Rosie, ickle Rosie!” The cat + Mr. Marrapit had lifted from her lap sprang back to that enticing cushion. + </p> + <p> + Gently stroking its queenly back, to the soft accompaniment of its + majestic purr, in acid-tipped accents she began to speak. + </p> + <p> + She pointed at the cat that now sat at George's crime-steeped boots. “When + I was out this morning I found that cat in a little copse on the Shipley + Road. At first I thought it was our darling Rose. Suddenly I heard voices. + I did not wish to be seen, because, dear Mr. Marrapit, if it was the Rose + I had found, I wanted to bring it to you alone—to be the first to + make you happy. So I slipped into a disused hut that stands there. + Footsteps approached the door and I went into an inner room.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major paused; shot a stabbing smile at George. + </p> + <p> + And now my miserable George realised. Now, visible at last, there rushed + upon him, grappled him, strangled him, the sinister something whose + presence he had scented on entering the apartment. No sound came from this + stricken man. He could not speak, nor move, nor think. Rooted he remained; + dully gazed at the thin lips whence poured the flood that engulfed and + that was utterly to wreck him. + </p> + <p> + The masterly woman continued. She indicated the rooted figure in the + middle of the room, the collapsed heap upon the sofa's edge. “Those two + entered. He had a basket. Oh, what were my feelings when out of it he took + our darling Rose!” + </p> + <p> + For the space of two minutes the masterly woman advertised the emotions + she had suffered by burying her face in the Rose's coat; rocking gently. + </p> + <p> + Emerging, she gulped her agitation; proceeded. “I need not repeat again + all the dreadful story I heard, Mr. Marrapit? Surely I need not?” + </p> + <p> + “You need not,” Mr. Marrapit told her. “You need not.” + </p> + <p> + With a masterly half-smile, expressive of gratitude through great + suffering, Mrs. Major thanked him. “Indeed,” she went on, “I did not hear + the whole of it. It was so dreadful, I was so horrified, that I think I + fainted. Yes, I fainted. But I heard them discuss how he had stolen the + Rose so they might marry on the reward when it was big enough. He had kept + the darling till then; now it was her turn to take charge of it—” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Major ceased with a jerk, drew in her legs preparatory to flight. + </p> + <p> + For the rooted figure had sprung alarmingly to life. George would not have + his darling Mary blackened. He took a stride to Mrs. Major; his pose + threatened her. “That's untrue!” he thundered. + </p> + <p> + “Ho!” exclaimed Mrs. Major. “Ho! A liar to my face! Ho!” + </p> + <p> + “And you are a liar,” George stormed, “when you say—” + </p> + <p> + “Silence!” commanded Mr. Marrapit. “Do not anger heaven yet further. Can + you still deny—?” + </p> + <p> + “No!” George said very loudly. “No! No! I deny nothing. But that woman's a + liar when she says Miss Humfray discussed the business with me, or that it + was Miss Humfray's turn to take the damned cat. Miss Humfray knew nothing + about it till I told her. When she heard she said it was wrong and tried + to make me take the cat back to you.” + </p> + <p> + In his wrath George had advanced close to Mrs. Major. He stretched a + violent finger to an inch from her nose. “That's true, isn't it? Have the + grace to admit that.” + </p> + <p> + Indomitable of purpose, the masterly woman pressed back her head as far as + the chair would allow, tightened her lips. + </p> + <p> + The violent finger followed. “Say it's true!” George boiled. + </p> + <p> + His Mary implored: “Oh, George, don't, don't!” + </p> + <p> + The furious young man flamed on to her. “Be quiet!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit began a sound. The furious young man flamed to him: “You be + quiet, too!” He thrust the dreadful finger at Mrs. Major. “Now speak the + truth. Had Miss Humfray anything to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + This tremendous George had temporary command of the room. The masterly + woman for once quailed. “I didn't hear that part,” she said. + </p> + <p> + George drew in the fearful finger. “That's as good as the truth—from + you.” He rounded upon Mr. Marrapit. “You understand that. This has been my + show.” + </p> + <p> + “A blackguard show,” pronounced Mr. Marrapit. “A monstrous and an impious + show. A—” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to hear that. Whatever it is you are the cause of it. If you + had done your duty with my mother's money—” + </p> + <p> + A figure passed the open French windows along the path. Mr. Marrapit + shouted “Fletcher!” The gardener entered. + </p> + <p> + “But you've betrayed your trust,” George shouted. He liked the fine phrase + and repeated it. “You've betrayed your trust!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrapit assumed his most collected air. “Silence. Silence, man of + sin. Leave the house. Return thanks where thanks are due if I do not hound + the law upon you. Take that girl. That miserable cat take. Hence!” + </p> + <p> + Mary got to her feet, put a hand on her George's arm. “Do come, dear.” + </p> + <p> + The wild young man shook her off. “I'll go when it pleases me!” he shouted + at Mr. Marrapit. + </p> + <p> + “You shall be arrested,” Mr. Marrapit returned. He addressed Mary. “Place + that cat in that basket Carry it away.” + </p> + <p> + George stood, heaving, panting, boiling for effective words, while his + Mary did as bade. Awful visions of her George, fettered between policemen, + trembled her pretty fingers. At last she had the basket strapped, raised + it. + </p> + <p> + “Come, George,” she said; and to Mr. Marrapit, “I'm so sorry, Mr. + Marrapit. I—” + </p> + <p> + It gave her furious George a vent. “Sorry! What are you sorry about? What + have you done?” He roared over to Mrs. Major: “What other lies have you + been telling?” He lashed himself at Mr. Marrapit. “Set the law on me? I + jolly well hope you will. It will all come out then how you've behaved—how + you've treated me. How you've betrayed—” + </p> + <p> + “Fletcher,” Mr. Marrapit interrupted, “remove that man. Take him out. + Thrust him from the house.” + </p> + <p> + “Me?” said Mr. Fletcher. “Me thrust him? I'm a gardener, I am; not a—” + </p> + <p> + “Duty or dismissal,” pronounced Mr. Marrapit. “Take choice.” He turned to + the window. “Come, Mrs. Major.” + </p> + <p> + George dashed for him. “You're not going till I've done with you!” + </p> + <p> + Violence was in his tone, passion in his face. + </p> + <p> + Alarmed, “Beware how you touch me!” called Mr. Marrapit; caught Mr. + Fletcher, thrust him forward. “Grapple him!” cried Mr. Marrapit. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Fletcher was violently impelled against George; to save a fall + clutched him. “Don't make a scene, Mr. George,” he implored. + </p> + <p> + George pushed him away. Mr. Fletcher trod back heavily upon Mr. Marrapit's + foot. Mr. Marrapit screamed shrilly, plunged backwards into a cabinet, + overturned it, sat heavily upon its debris. + </p> + <p> + A laugh overcame George's fury. He swung on his heel; called “Come” to his + Mary; stalked from the house. + </p> + <p> + As they passed through the gate, “Oh, Georgie!” his Mary breathed. “Oh, + Georgie!” + </p> + <p> + He raged on to her: “What on earth made you say you were sorry? You've no + spirit, Mary! No spirit!” + </p> + <p> + The tremendous young man stalked ahead with huge strides. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + In deep melancholy, sore beneath the correction Mr. Marrapit had heaped + upon him, Mr. Fletcher wandered from the study; turned as he reached the + path. “Me grapple him!” said Mr. Fletcher. “Me a craven! Me thrust him + from the house! It's 'ard—damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; not a + Ju-jitsu.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> + <h3> + Agony In Meath Street. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + Silent, gloom-ridden, my sniffing Mary, my black-browed George laboured to + the station. Silent they sat upon a bench waiting the London train. + </p> + <p> + George bought his Mary a piece of chocolate from the automatic machine; + she was a forlorn picture as with tiny nibbles she ate it, tears in her + pretty eyes. In the restaurant George bought himself a huge cigar. This + man was a desperate spectacle as with huge puffs he smoked, hands deep in + pockets, legs thrust straight, brows horribly knitted. + </p> + <p> + They had no words. + </p> + <p> + The train came in. George found an empty compartment; helped his poor Mary + to a corner; roughly dumped the cat-basket upon the rack; moodily plumped + opposite his Mary. + </p> + <p> + They had no words. + </p> + <p> + It was as the train moved from the third stop that Mary, putting a giant + sniff upon her emotions, asked her George: “Wher—where are we going, + dear?” + </p> + <p> + It was not until the fifth stop that George made answer. “Those Battersea + digs,” he told her. + </p> + <p> + They had no words. + </p> + <p> + At Queen's Road station gloomily they alighted; silently laboured to the + house of Mrs. Pinking. + </p> + <p> + George answered her surprise. “Miss Humfray will have these rooms again, + Mrs. Pinking, if you will be so kind; and I—” He checked. “Could you + let us have some tea, Mrs. Pinking? Afterwards I'll have a talk with you. + We've got into a—We're very tired. If you could just let us have + some tea, then I'll explain.” + </p> + <p> + In silence they ate and drank. George was half turned from the table, + gloomily gazing from the window. Tiny sniffs came from his Mary; he had no + words for her; looked away. + </p> + <p> + But presently there was a most dreadful choking sound. He sprang around. + Most painfully his Mary was spluttering over a cup of tea. With trembling + hands she put down the cup; her face was red, convulsively working. + </p> + <p> + George half rose to her. “Don't cry, darling Mary-kins. Don't cry.” + </p> + <p> + She set down the cup; swallowed; gasped, “I'm not crying—I'm + la-laughing,” and into a pipe of gayest mirth she went. + </p> + <p> + Gloom gathered its sackcloth skirts; scuttled from the room. + </p> + <p> + George roared with laughter; rocked and roared again. When he could get a + catch upon his mirth there was the clear pipe of his Mary's glee, clear, + compelling, setting him off again. When she would gasp for breath there + was her dear George, head in those brown hands, shaking with tremendous + laughter—and she must start again. + </p> + <p> + She gasped: “George! If you could have seen yourself standing there + telling those awful stories—!” + </p> + <p> + He gasped: “When I mistook the cats—!” + </p> + <p> + She gasped: “Mr. Marrapit's face—!” + </p> + <p> + He gasped: “Mrs. Major's—!” + </p> + <p> + The exhaustion of their mirth gave them pause at last. George wiped his + running eyes; Mary tremendously blew her little nose, patted her gold hair + where it eagerly straggled. + </p> + <p> + “I feel better after that,” George said. + </p> + <p> + She told him, “So do I—heaps. It's no good being miserable over what + is past, is it, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit; not the slightest. Come and sit on the sofa and let's see + where we are.” She put that golden head upon his manly shoulder; he + fetched his right arm about her; she nursed her hands upon the brown fist + that came into her lap; that other brown hand he set upon the three. + </p> + <p> + Together they viewed their prospects—gloomy pictures. + </p> + <p> + “But we're fairly in the cart,” George summed up. “We are, you know.” + </p> + <p> + His ridiculous Mary gave him that lovers' ridiculous specific. “We've got + each other,” she told him, snuggling to him. + </p> + <p> + George kissed her. He fumbled in his pockets. “I've got just about three + pounds—over from what Marrapit gave me for the clue-hunting. I say, + Mary, it's pretty awful.” + </p> + <p> + She snuggled the closer. + </p> + <p> + Early evening, tip-toeing through the window, was drawing her dusky + hangings about the room when at length George withdrew the brown hands; + stirred. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + Upon a little sigh Mary let go the string that held the dreams she had + been dreaming. Like a great gay bundle of many-coloured toy balloons + suddenly released, they soared away. She came to the desperate present; + noted her George filling his pipe. + </p> + <p> + He got upon his legs; paced the floor, puffing. + </p> + <p> + It was his characteristic pose when he was most tremendous. She watched + this tremendous fellow adoringly. + </p> + <p> + He told her: “I've settled it all, Marykins. I've fixed it all up. We'll + pull through right as rain.” He caught the admiring glance in his Mary's + eye; inhaled and gusted forth a huge breath of smoke; repeated the fine + sentence. “We'll pull through right as rain.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear George!” she softly applauded. + </p> + <p> + He pushed ahead. “There's this locum tenens I was going to take up in the + North. I haven't offed that yet—haven't refused it, I mean. Well, I + shall take it. The screw's pretty rotten, but up in the North—in the + North, you know—well, it's not like London. It's cheap—frightfully + cheap. You can live on next to nothing—” + </p> + <p> + She pushed out the irritating, practical, womanish side of her. “<i>Can</i> + you? How do you <i>know</i>, Georgie?” + </p> + <p> + We men hate these pokes at our knowledge; women will not understand + generalisations. George jerked back: “How do I <i>know</i>? Oh, don't + interrupt like that, Mary. Everybody knows that living is cheap in the + North—in the <i>North</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she excused herself. “Of course, dear, I see.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, where was I? Frightfully cheap, so the screw won't matter. I'll + take the job, dearest. I'll take it for next month. And—listen—we'll + marry and go up there together and live in some ripping little rooms. + There!” + </p> + <p> + She was flaming pink; could only breathe: “Georgie, <i>dear!</i>” + </p> + <p> + He stopped his pacing to give her a squeezing hug, a kiss upon the top of + the gold hair. Then he went through the steps of a wild dance. “Marry!” he + cried. “Marry, old girl, and let everybody go hang! We'll have to work it + through a registrar. I'm not quite sure how it's done, but I'll find out + tomorrow. I know you both have to have been resident in the place for a + week or so—I'll fix all that. Then we'll peg along up in the North; + and we'll look out for whatever turns up, and we'll save, and in time + we'll buy a practice just like Runnygate.” + </p> + <p> + Now he sat beside his Mary again; with a tremendous brush painted in more + details of this entrancing picture. Every doubt, every difficulty he threw + to tomorrow—that glad sea in which youth casts its every trouble. + Was he sure he still had the refusal of this locum?—rather! but he + would make certain, tomorrow. Was he sure they both could live upon the + salary?-rather! he would prove it to-morrow. Could they really get married + at a registrar's within a few days?-rather! he'd fix that up to-morrow. As + to the money necessary for the marriage, necessary to tide over the days + till the locum was taken up, why, he knew he could borrow that—from + the Dean or from Professor Wyvern—to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + They were upon the very crest and flood of their delight when George noted + the gathering dusk. + </p> + <p> + “I say, it's getting late!” he exclaimed. “I must fix it up with Mrs. + Pinking. We've made no arrangement with her yet.” + </p> + <p> + Mary agreed: “Yes, dear.” She went on, pretty eyes shining, face aglow: + “Oh, Georgie, think of the last time you brought me here! I had nothing to + expect but going out to work again; and you weren't qualified. And now—now, + although we've lost our little Runnygate home” (she could not stop a tiny + sigh), “we're actually going to be married in a few days! Georgie, I + shan't sleep for hoping everything will turn out all right to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “It will,” George told her. “It will. Right as rain, old girl.” + </p> + <p> + Her great sigh of contentment advertised the drink she took of that + sparkling future. “Think of us being together always in a week or so—belonging! + Where will you stay till then? Quite close. Get a room quite close, + Georgie?” + </p> + <p> + He stared at her. “Why, you old goose, I'm not going.” + </p> + <p> + She echoed him: “Not going?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not. I'm going to get a bedroom here, and we'll have all our + meals and everything in here. We're not going to part again, Marykins. Not + much!” + </p> + <p> + That maddening handicap beneath which the sweetest women trudge shackled + Mary, deluged this joy. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Georgie!” she said; and again trembled, “Oh, Georgie!” + </p> + <p> + My impulsive George scented the damp. “Well?” he asked. “Well? Whatever's—?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Georgie, you can't have a room here. We can't have all our meals + together here?” + </p> + <p> + He realised the trouble. He broke out: “Why ever not? Why ever—?” + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn't be <i>right</i>! Georgie, it <i>wouldn't</i> be right!” + </p> + <p> + Her impulsive George choked for words. “Not right! 'Pon my soul, Mary, I + simply don't understand you sometimes. Not <i>right! Why</i> isn't it + right?” + </p> + <p> + It was so difficult to tell. “You don't understand, dear—” + </p> + <p> + “No, I'm damned if I do. I'm sorry, Mary, but you are so funny, you women. + It's so exasperating after the—the devil of a day I've had. Just + when I've fixed up everything you turn round and”—he threw out an + angry hand—“<i>Why</i> isn't it right?” + </p> + <p> + This poor little Mary clung to her little principles. “Don't you see? + we're engaged, dear; and being engaged, we oughtn't to live alone like + this. People would—” + </p> + <p> + He began to rave. Certainly he had had a devil of a day; and this was a + maddening buffet. + </p> + <p> + “People!” he cried. “People! People! You're always thinking of people, you + women! Who's to know? Who on earth's to know?” + </p> + <p> + The instinct of generations of training gave her the instinctive reply in + the instinctive sweet little tone: “We should know, Georgie,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He flung up his arms: “Oh, good God!” + </p> + <p> + He swallowed his boiling irritation; laughed 'spite himself; went to his + Mary. “Mary, don't be such an utter, utter goose. It's too, too + ridiculous.” + </p> + <p> + She took his kiss; but she held her stupid little ground. + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn't be right, Georgie, <i>really</i>!” + </p> + <p> + Her George clanged the bell with a furious stroke that brought Mrs. + Pinking in panic up the stairs. Holding himself very straight, speaking in + sentences short and hard, paying to his Mary no smallest attention, he + made the arrangements. Miss Humfray would take on her bedroom again. By + the week. If Mrs. Pinking would be so kind as to allow them the same + terms. He thanked her. That was settled, then. He would look in in the + morning. He would say good night, Mrs. Pinking. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pinking gave him good night; busied herself with the tea-things. + </p> + <p> + Her presence enabled this brutal George to preserve his stony bearing; + denied his pretty Mary opportunity to melt him with her tears. + </p> + <p> + Hard as flint, “Well, good night,” he said to her. “I'll look in to-morrow + morning.” + </p> + <p> + Upon a little sniff, “Good night,” she whispered; strangled an “Oh, + George! George!” + </p> + <p> + She followed him to the door. He was down the stairs before she could + command her voice for: “Where shall you go, George?” + </p> + <p> + With the reckless fury of one who sets forth to plunge into the river, he + called back, “I? I? Oh, <i>anywhere—anywhere</i>. Who cares where <i>I</i> + go?” + </p> + <p> + The hall door slammed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Late into that night while a young woman sobbed her pretty eyes out upon a + pillow in a back room of Meath Street, Battersea, a young man, who + furiously had been pacing London, paced and repaced the street from end to + end, gazing the windows of the house where she lay. This young man + muttered, gesticulated, groaned. “Oh, damn!” was his song. “Oh, Mary! Oh, + what a cursed brute I am!” + </p> + <p> + It was a bitter ending to a fearful day. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> + <h3> + Mr. William Wyvern In Meath Street. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + George spent the night—such of it as remained after his bitter + moanings outside his Mary's lodging—with the Mr. Franklyn who had + accompanied him on that little “stroll up west” that had terminated in the + cab adventure nearly three months before. Of all his student friends who + would give him a bed, Mr. Franklyn, because in a way associated with his + Mary, had come most prominently into his mind. That same association gave + him a lead from which to pour out his reply to Mr. Franklyn's rallying, as + they sat at supper, upon his gloom. + </p> + <p> + “You remember that day after the July exam, when we went up west + together?” he began. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Franklyn remembered; in some gloom shook his head over the + recollection. “That waitress you left me with in the shop,” said Mr. + Franklyn sadly, “she—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hang the waitress! Listen, Franklyn, After I left you I turned up + past the Marble Arch—” He proceeded with some account of the love + between him and his Mary; skipped all details relating to the cat; came to + the impending marriage; sought advice upon the prospects of a man marrying + on a locum's earnings. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Franklyn listened with great sympathy. “It's a rum thing you should be + placed like that, George,” he said. “I'm in just the same position.” + </p> + <p> + George exclaimed eagerly—in love, youth warms to a companion—“You + are!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, not exactly,” Mr. Franklyn admitted. “Very nearly. I've got myself + into a brute of a fix over a girl in the lager-beer garden at Earl's + Court. She—” + </p> + <p> + George bounced from the table, seized his hat. “Who cares a damn about + your lager-beer girls?” he shouted; slammed from the house. + </p> + <p> + It was then, while Mr. Franklyn laboriously indited a letter in reply to + one received from the lager-beer girl's mother, that George paced Meath + Street. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + At breakfast with Mr. Franklyn upon the following morning, he was in + brighter trim—apologised for his over-night abruptness; apologised + for the hasty meal he was making; announced that he was off to see his + Mary. + </p> + <p> + As he lit his pipe, “I'll see you at hospital this morning some time, old + chap,” he said. “I shall dash in to fix up with the Dean about taking + Bingham's place in that practice up in Yorkshire.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Franklyn prodded for another slice of bacon. “You can't, old chap,” he + remarked. “That's filled.” + </p> + <p> + George shouted: “Filled! What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, taken—gone. Simpson's got it—ten days ago.” + </p> + <p> + An icy chill smote my poor George. After the dreadful loss of Runnygate + everything had depended upon this appointment with its salary considerably + above the average. + </p> + <p> + “Simpson! Simmy got it!” he shouted. “What the blazes does Simmy mean by + taking it? He knew I was after it.” + </p> + <p> + “My good lad, you never came near the place after you'd qualified. If + Simmy hadn't taken it someone else would. Bingham was in a hurry.” + </p> + <p> + Blankly George stared before him. At length, “I suppose there are several + other jobs going?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “None on the Dean's list,” said Mr. Franklyn. “I was looking at it last + night.” + </p> + <p> + Beneath this new distress George postponed the burning desire to clasp his + Mary in his arms and beg forgiveness. He hurried to hospital; made for the + Dean's office. Here disaster was confirmed. Simpson had already taken the + Yorkshire place; the Dean had no other posts on his lists. “Only this + Runnygate practice,” he said. “I haven't seen you since you qualified. Can + you raise the price?” + </p> + <p> + George, rising and making for the door, could only shake his head. There + was something at his throat that forbade speech. Runnygate and all that + Runnygate meant—the dear little home, the tight little practice, the + tremendous future—was a bitter picture now that it was so utterly + lost; now that even this place in Yorkshire was also gone. + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Great pity!” the Dean told him. “I've kept it for you. Lawrence, the man + who's leaving it, is coming to see me at five this evening. I shall have + to help him find another purchaser.” + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + The infernal something in George's throat gripped the harder as he took + his way to his Mary. He cursed himself for that hideous cat enterprise. + Had he never undertaken it, had he continued instead to entreat and + implore, there was always the chance that his uncle would have relented + and advanced the money sufficient for Runnygate. + </p> + <p> + As things were, he stood for ever damned in his uncle's eyes; further, by + his folly he had encompassed his darling Mary's ejection from a home where + she might comfortably have stayed till he was in position to marry her; + further, he had just missed the assistantship which, to his present frame + of mind, seemed the sole post in the world that would give him sufficient + upon which to call his Mary wife. + </p> + <p> + The desperate thoughts augmented his fearful remorse at his treatment of + her overnight. Arrived at Meath Street, admitted by Mrs. Pinking, he + bounded up the stairs, tremendous in his agony of love. + </p> + <p> + His Mary had her pretty nose pressed flat against the window. With dim + eyes she had been gazing for her George in the opposite direction from + that he had approached. + </p> + <p> + He closed the door behind him. + </p> + <p> + “Mary!” he called, arms outstretched. + </p> + <p> + Into them she flung herself. + </p> + <p> + They locked in a hug so desperate as only love itself could have borne. + </p> + <p> + He poured out his remorse; beside him on the sofa she patted those brown + hands. He told his gloomy tale; she patted the more lovingly—assured + him that, if the Yorkshire place had failed, something equally good would + turn up. + </p> + <p> + But he was in desperate despondency. “It's all that infernal cat, Mary,” + he groaned; she kissed that knotted forehead. + </p> + <p> + He asked her: “By the way, where's that other brute?—the beast we + brought here with us?” + </p> + <p> + She peered low. “I've just fed the poor thing.” + </p> + <p> + Attracted by her movement, that orange cat which had wrought the fearful + disaster came forth from beneath the table. + </p> + <p> + “G-r-r-r!” George growled; stamped his foot. + </p> + <p> + The orange cat again took shelter. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, don't frighten it, dear,” Mary told him. “It's done no harm.” + </p> + <p> + George rose. He was too tremendously moved to contain himself while + seated. “Done no harm!” he cried. He took a step to the window. “Done no—” + He stopped short. “Oh, Lord! I say, Mary! Oh, Lord! here's Bill!” + </p> + <p> + Mary fluttered to his side; saw Bill Wyvern disappear beneath the porch of + the door. + </p> + <p> + A knock; shuffling in the passage; footsteps up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “By Gad! I'd forgotten all about old Bill,” George said. + </p> + <p> + Then Bill entered. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> + <h3> + Abishag The Shunamite In Meath Street. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + The most tremendous crises between man and man commonly begin with + exchange of the customary banalities. Charlotte Corday gave Marat <i>“Bonsoir, + citoyen,”</i> ere she drove her knife. This was no cloak to hide her + purpose. We are so much creatures of convention that the man who sets out, + hell in breast, to avenge himself upon another, cannot forbear to give him + greeting before ever he comes upon the matter between them. + </p> + <p> + George, involuntarily straightening his back as he remembered how + desperately he had hoodwinked this Bill, had upon a fool's errand packed + him to that inn, as involuntarily passed him the customary words. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo, Bill!” he said. “How on earth did you know I was here?” + </p> + <p> + He awaited the burst of reproach; the torrent of fury. + </p> + <p> + These did not come. About Bill's mouth, as from George to Mary he glanced, + there were the lines of amusement; no menace lay in his clear blue eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Went to look for you at the hospital,” Bill replied. “Met that man + Franklyn, and he told me you very probably were here.” + </p> + <p> + George pushed ahead with the banalities. “Surprised to see Miss Humfray + here?” he asked. “You met her, of course, at my uncle's while—while”—this + was dangerous ground, and he hurried over it—“while I was away,” he + said quickly; blew his nose. + </p> + <p> + Bill told him: “Yes. Not a bit surprised.” The creases of amusement became + more evident. He shook Mary's hand. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” George said. “Um! Quite so. Sit down, Bill.” + </p> + <p> + They took seats. Constraint was upon these people; each sat upon the + extreme edge of the chair selected. + </p> + <p> + After a pause, “You've been to Herons' Holt, then?” George remarked. + </p> + <p> + “Yesterday. Yesterday night.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Yesterday. Thursday, so to speak. Um! Margaret quite well?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite.” + </p> + <p> + The deadly pause came on again. Mary looked appealing to her George. + George, his right boot in a patch of sunlight, earnestly was watching it + as, twisting it this way and that, the polish caught the rays. + </p> + <p> + It lay with herself to make a thrust through this fearful silence. Upon a + timid little squeak she shot out: “Mr. Marrapit quite well?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite,” Bill told her. “Quite. A little bit—” He checked; again the + silence fell. + </p> + <p> + Mary no longer could endure it. Impulsively leaning forward, arms + outstretched, hands clasped, “Oh, Mr. Wyvern!” she cried. “You're <i>not</i> + angry with George, <i>are</i> you? He <i>couldn't</i> help sending you to + that inn, <i>could</i> he?” + </p> + <p> + Constraint fled. “Of course I'm not,” Bill declared. “Not a bit. I've come + here to congratulate you both. I—” + </p> + <p> + George sprang forward; grasped Bill's hand. “Good old buck!” he cried. + “Good old Bill! I'm awfully sorry, Bill. You're a stunner, Bill. Isn't he + a stunner, Mary?” + </p> + <p> + “He <i>is</i> a stunner,” Mary agreed. + </p> + <p> + The stunner, red beneath this praise, warmly returned George's grip. When + they released, “I say, George, you <i>are</i> an ass, you know,” he said. + “Why on earth didn't you tell me what you were up to?” + </p> + <p> + “You weren't there, old man, when it began. You were in London. How on + earth was I to know your paper would come plunging into the business?” The + memory of the pains that paper had caused him swept all else from George's + mind. Indignation seized him. “It was a scandalous bit of work, Bill. 'Pon + my soul it's simply shameful that a newspaper can go and interfere in a + purely private matter like that. Yes, it is, Mary. Don't you interrupt. + Bill understands. I don't blame you, Bill; you were doing your duty. I + blame the editor. What did he want to push into it for? I tell you that + paper drove me up and down the country till I was pretty well dead. It's + all very well for you to grin, Bill.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not grinning.” + </p> + <p> + “You are grinning.” George threw a bitter note into his declamations. “Of + course, you can afford to grin. What was agony to me was hot stuff for + you. I expect you've made your reputation over this show. Everything's + turned out all right for you—” + </p> + <p> + Bill took that bitter note. “Rather!” he broke in. “Rather! I pulled it + off, didn't I? I found the rotten cat, didn't I? I wasn't made a fool of + for two days in a country inn, was I? I've not got the sack all through + you, have I?” + </p> + <p> + George instantly forgot his personal sorrows. “Oh, I say, Bill, you + haven't, have you?” + </p> + <p> + Bill, not expecting the interruption, confessed a little lamely: “No, I + haven't. I <i>haven't</i>—as it turns out. But I might have—if + it wasn't for—” He paused a moment; sadly said, “Anyway, just as I + thought I'd got her, I've lost Margaret again.” + </p> + <p> + In those fierce days when her Bill was the Daily Special Commissioner, + Margaret had confided in Mary the promise Mr. Marrapit had made should + Bill find the cat. Now Mary was filled with sympathy. “Oh, Mr. Wyvern!” + she cried, “I <i>am</i> sorry! What has happened? How do you know? Do tell + us everything of when you went to Herons' Holt last night.” + </p> + <p> + Bill took a chair. He said gloomily: “There's not much to tell. I felt I + couldn't wait at that infernal inn any longer, so I left the detective in + charge, went to the inn where we'd found George, didn't see him, and came + back to Herons' Holt. I saw old Marrapit for about two minutes in the + hall. He foamed at me all about George, foamed out that I was one of + George's friends, and foamed me out of the door before I could get in a + word. Said I never was to come near the place again. I asked him about + Margaret, and he had a kind of fit—a kind of fit.” + </p> + <p> + George said softly: “I know what you mean, old man.” + </p> + <p> + “A kind of fit,” Bill gloomily repeated. Then he struck one clenched fist + into the palm of the other hand. “And hang it!” he cried, “I've won her! + According to the bargain old Marrapit made with me, I've won her. If it + had not been for me you wouldn't have taken the cat to that hut in the + wood, and if you hadn't taken it there Marrapit wouldn't have it <i>now</i>. + It's through me he got it, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Bill,” George told him, “it is. You rotted my show all right. No mistake + about that.” + </p> + <p> + It was a fearful situation as between these two young men. In silence, in + gloom, they gazed each upon the ground. + </p> + <p> + Bill took a glance at George's face; turned hurriedly from the despair + there stamped; set his eyes upon my pretty Mary. He gave a sigh. + </p> + <p> + “But, George, old man, you've come out of it the better,” he said. “You've + lost the money you wanted, but you've got your—you've got Miss + Humfray. I've lost my—I've lost Margaret.” + </p> + <p> + In great melancholy George rose; crossed to his Mary; sat upon the arm of + her chair; caressed her pretty shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “You don't know what you're talking about, Bill. Bill, we're in a most + fearful hole. We haven't got a sou, and I've got no work. You're doing + well. You're making money. You're bound to get Margaret in time. As for us—” + </p> + <p> + Bill was deeply stirred. “I say, I am sorry,” he told them. He sat up very + straight. “Look here, don't get down on your luck. Come out and have lunch + with me and tell me just how you're fixed. If a small loan will do you any + good I'm certain my guv'nor will stand it. He likes you awfully, George. + Come on. I shan't see you again otherwise for some time. I'm off on + another Special Commissioner job for the <i>Daily</i>, you know.” + </p> + <p> + George gave a slight shudder. “Oh? Thank goodness, I'm not the object of + it this time. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “What is it? Why, you've seen the <i>Daily</i> this morning, haven't you?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll never open the infernal thing again.” + </p> + <p> + Bill did not heed the aspersion. “It's really rather funny, you know,” he + went on. “Look here.” He tugged at his pocket; produced a <i>Daily</i>. + </p> + <p> + A pencil dislodged by the paper fell to the ground; rolled beneath the + table. + </p> + <p> + Bill stooped after it. The cat that lay there, disturbed, walked forth—arching + its proud orange back. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + With eyes that goggled tremendously Bill stared at it; with a finger that + shook he pointed at it; turned his head to George. “George,” he asked, + “whose cat is that?” + </p> + <p> + George looked at Mary; gave a bitter little laugh. “I suppose it's ours,” + he replied. “Eh, Mary?” + </p> + <p> + A sad little smile his Mary gave, “I suppose it is,” she agreed. + </p> + <p> + From one to the other Bill looked, suspicion in those goggling eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You <i>suppose</i> it is?” he emphasised. Again he swiftly looked from + George to Mary; again stared at the splendid orange form. “George,” he + said sharply—“George, what is that cat's name?” + </p> + <p> + George regarded him with a whimsical smile. “Bill, you old duffer, you + don't think it's the Rose, do you?” + </p> + <p> + Yet more sharply than before Bill spoke. “George, is that cat's name + Abishag?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Abishag?</i> What an awful—” + </p> + <p> + Bill turned from him with an impatient gesture. He called to the cat, + “Abishag! Abishag!” + </p> + <p> + With upreared tail the fine creature trotted to him. + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord!” George broke out. “Is that <i>your</i> cat, Bill?” + </p> + <p> + Bill turned upon him. “<i>My</i> cat! You know thundering well it's not my + cat.” + </p> + <p> + “But it knows you, Mr. Wyvern,” Mary told him wonderingly. + </p> + <p> + There was sorrow, a look of pity in this young man's eyes as reproachfully + he regarded my Mary. + </p> + <p> + He swung round upon George. “George, you've made a fool of me once—” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know what on earth's the matter with you,” George told him. + </p> + <p> + With knitted brows Bill for a moment searched his face. “I ask you + point-blank,” he said slowly. “Did you steal this cat, George?” + </p> + <p> + George struck the stern young man upon the back. “Is <i>that</i> what + you're driving at, you old ass? Stole it! D'you suppose I'll ever <i>touch</i> + a cat again? That's the infernal cat Mrs. Major left in that hut when she + hooked off the Rose. Marrapit told you, didn't he?” + </p> + <p> + Into a chair Bill collapsed—legs thrust straight before him, head + against the cushioned back. He gasped. “George, this is a licker, a fair + licker.” Enormously this staggered man swelled as he inhaled a tremendous + breath; upon a vast sigh he let it go. “That cat—” he said. He got + to his legs and paced the room; astonished, Mary and George regarded him. + “That cat—I'll bet my life that's the cat!” + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + My Mary was trembling before this fearful agitation. For support she took + her George's hand. “Oh, Mr. Wyvern!” she cried, “whatever is it? Have we + got into another awful trouble through those dreadful, <i>dreadful</i> + cats?” + </p> + <p> + “Look at the <i>Daily</i>,” Bill said. “Look at the <i>Daily</i>. George, + give me a cigarette. I must smoke. This is an absolute licker.” + </p> + <p> + My frightened Mary jumped for the paper where it had fallen; spread it + upon the table; opened it. “Oh, George!” she cried. “Oh, George!”; pressed + a pretty finger upon these flaming words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ANOTHER CAT OUTRAGE. + + AMAZING STORY. + + MR. VIVIAN HOWARD'S FAMOUS PET + + STOLEN WHILE BACK TURNED. + + “DAILY” OFFER. + + 500 POUNDS FOR OUR READERS. +</pre> + <p> + My Mary's golden head, my George's head of brown, pressed and nudged as + with bulging eyes they read the crisp, telling paragraphs that followed in + a column of leaded type. + </p> + <p> + Readers of the <i>Daily</i>, it appeared, would be astonished to learn + that the abduction of Mr. Marrapit's famous cat, the Rose of Sharon—concerning + the recovery of which all hope had now been abandoned—had been + followed by a similar outrage of a nature even more sensational, more + daring. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vivian Howard, the famous author and dramatist, whose new novel, “Amy + Martin,” <i>Daily</i> readers need not be reminded, was to start in the <i>Daily</i> + as a feuilleton on Monday week, had been robbed of his famous cat “Abishag + the Shunamite.” + </p> + <p> + The whole reading public were well aware of Mr. Howard's devotion to this + valuable pet. Scarcely a portrait of Mr. Howard was extant that did not + show Abishag the Shunamite by his side. + </p> + <p> + It was a melancholy coincidence that in the interview granted to the <i>Daily</i> + by Mr. Howard last Saturday he had told that Abishag had sat upon his + table while every single word of the manuscript of “Amy Martin” was + penned. He had admitted that she was his mascot. Without her presence he + could not compose a line. <i>Daily</i> readers would imagine, then, Mr. + Howard's prostration at his appalling loss. + </p> + <p> + The occurrence had taken place on Monday night. As <i>Daily</i> readers + were well aware, Mr. Howard had for some weeks been staying at the house + of his widowed mother in Sussex Gardens. Nightly at nine it had been his + custom to stroll round the gardens before settling down for three hours' + work upon “Amy Martin.” During his stroll Abishag would slip into the + gardens, meeting her master upon his completion of the circuit. + </p> + <p> + According to this practice, Mr. Howard, on Monday night, had followed his + usual custom. He believed he might possibly have walked a little slower + than usual as he was pondering deeply over his final revise of the proof + of “Amy Martin.” Otherwise his programme was identical with its usual + performance. But upon his return the cat was not to be found. + </p> + <p> + Theories, suggestions, investigations that had already been made, + followed. The <i>Daily</i> abundantly proved that the cat had not strayed + but had been deliberately stolen by someone well acquainted with Mr. + Howard's nightly promenade; pointed out that this second outrage showed + that no one possessing a valuable cat was safe from the machinations of a + desperate gang; asked, Where are the police? and concluded with the pica + sub-head: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “DAILY” OFFER. +</pre> + <p> + The <i>Daily,</i> it appeared, on behalf of the whole reading public of + Great Britain, the Colonies, America, and the many Continental countries + into whose tongues Mr. Howard's novels had been translated, offered 500 + pounds to the person who would return, or secure the return of, Abishag + the Shunamite, and thus restore peace to the heart of England's premier + novelist, whose new story, “Amy Martin,” would start in the <i>Daily</i> + on Monday week. + </p> + <p> + A sketch-map of Sussex Gardens, entitled “Scene of the Outrage,” showed, + by means of dotted lines, (A) Route taken by Mr. Vivian Howard; (B) Route + into Gardens taken by cat; (C) Supposed route taken by thief. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Henry T. Bitt had achieved a mammoth splash. + </p> + <h3> + IV. + </h3> + <p> + The golden head and the head of brown lifted simultaneously from the + paper; stared towards Bill, pacing, smoking. + </p> + <p> + Tremendous possibilities flickered in George's mind; made his voice husky. + “Bill,” he asked, “do you believe that cat is this Abishag—Vivian + Howard's Abishag?” + </p> + <p> + Bill nodded absently. This man's thoughts were afar—revolving this + situation he had named “licker.” “Look at the description,” he said. “Look + at the cat. It knows its name, doesn't it? I've seen a life-size painting + of Abishag. It's a cert.” + </p> + <p> + George dropped upon the sofa; his thoughts, too, rushed afar. + </p> + <p> + Tremendous possibilities danced a wild jig in his Mary's pretty head; + trembled her voice. “Oh, Mr. Wyvern!” she appealed, “what does it mean? + What does it mean—for us?” + </p> + <p> + “It's a licker,” Bill told her. “It's a fair licker.” + </p> + <p> + Mary dropped by her George's side; to his her thoughts rushed. + </p> + <p> + Presently Bill threw away his cigarette; faced George. He said slowly: + “Mrs. Major must have stolen this cat, George. But how did she get it? + She's been at Herons' Holt the last week.” + </p> + <p> + Mary gave a little jump. “Oh, Mr. Wyvern, she went up to town on Monday + till Tuesday.” + </p> + <p> + Bill struck a hand upon the table. “That fixes it. By gum, that fixes it! + I tell you what it is, George. I tell you what it is. I believe—yes, + I believe she'd seen this cat before, knew it was like the Rose, and meant + to have palmed it off on old Marrapit herself so as to get him to take her + back. Margaret told me all about her getting the sack. I bet my life + that's it. By gum, <i>what</i> a splash for the <i>Daily!</i>” And upon + this fine thought the young man stood with sparkling eyes. + </p> + <p> + George timidly touched the castles he had been building: “Bill, where do I—where + do Mary and I come in?” + </p> + <p> + Bill clapped his hands together. “Why, my good old buck, don't you + see?-don't you realise?-you get this L500. Just do you, eh?” + </p> + <p> + <i>“Runnygate!”</i> George burst out with a violent jerk; clasped his Mary + in an immense hug. + </p> + <p> + <i>“Runnygate!”</i> came thickly from his Mary, face squashed against this + splendid fellow. + </p> + <p> + When they unlocked my blushing Mary suddenly paled: “Oh, but you, Mr. + Wyvern—you found it really.” + </p> + <p> + “Not much,” Bill declared. “Not likely. You found it. I couldn't have the + reward, anyway. I'm one of the staff.” He repeated the fine words: “One of + the <i>staff</i>.” + </p> + <p> + She made to thank him. “Besides,” he interrupted her, “I'll make a lot out + of it. I'm doing awfully well. The chief was awfully pleased with the way + I ran that Rose of Sharon job. Of course this is twice as big a splash, + because Vivian Howard's mixed up in it. Look what a boost it is for our + new serial—look what a tremendous ad. it is for the paper! Directly + Howard came to us the editor dropped the Rose like a hot coal; plumped for + this and put me in charge. Now I've pulled it off, just think how bucked + up he'll be! It's a licker, George—a licker all round.” + </p> + <p> + “Bill,” George said, “I can't speak about it. My head's whirling. I + believe it's a dream.” + </p> + <p> + Indeed this George had rushed through so much in the past hours, was now + suddenly come upon so much, that the excitement, as he attempted + realisation, was of stunning effect. He sat white, head in hands. + </p> + <p> + “Jolly soon show you!” Bill cried. “Come to the office straight away. + Bring the cat. I was to meet the chief and Vivian Howard there at twelve.” + </p> + <p> + George sprang to his feet; ruddy again of face. “Come on!” he cried. + “Bill, if it isn't his Abishag, if there's any hitch, I'll—I'll—oh, + Mary, don't build too highly on this, old girl!” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I come, Georgie?” + </p> + <p> + George hesitated. “Better not. Better not, if you don't mind. I couldn't + bear to see your face if Vivian Howard says it isn't the cat.” + </p> + <p> + White-faced, between tears and smiles, his Mary waved from the window as + George, cat under arm, turned the corner with Bill. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <h3> + Excursions In A Newspaper Office. + </h3> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + Silent, white and stern of face, occupied with immense thoughts, the young + men sat as the cab they had found outside Battersea Park station sped them + towards Fleet Street. + </p> + <p> + They were upon the Embankment, rattling beneath Hungerford Bridge, when + from the tangle of his plans Bill at last drew a thread; weaved it to + words. “George, we mustn't tell the chief anything about your being mixed + up with the other cat outrage—the Rose. It might be awkward.” + </p> + <p> + George shifted the hand that firmly held Abishag on the seat between them; + squeezed that fine creature's head to him with his arm; with his + handkerchief wiped his sweating palms. + </p> + <p> + “It's <i>going</i> to be awkward,” he said—“damned awkward! I see + that. Oh, Bill!” + </p> + <p> + He groaned. This young man was in desperate agitation. + </p> + <p> + “Buck up,” Bill told him. “This is a cert. Safe as houses.” + </p> + <p> + “All very well for you, Bill. I seem to have been living one gigantic lie + all the past week.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you have, you know,” Bill granted. “By gum, you have! But you + aren't now. You didn't steal <i>this</i> cat. You found it just as anyone + else might have found it. All I tell you is: Don't say anything about the + Rose. Don't open your mouth, in fact. Leave the gassing to me.” + </p> + <p> + It was upon this repeated injunction that my poor George tottered up the + stairs of the <i>Daily</i> office, cat in arm, in Bill's wake. + </p> + <h3> + II. + </h3> + <p> + Bill rapped upon Mr. Bitt's door; poked in his head at the answering call; + motioned my trembling George to wait; stepped over the threshold. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bitt sat behind a broad table; before him, deep in an armchair, + smoking a cigarette, lay Mr. Vivian Howard. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Wyvern,” spoke Mr. Bitt. “Mr. Howard, this is Mr. Wyvern, one of my + brightest young men. From to-day he takes in hand this business.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vivian Howard did not rise; stretched a white hand to Bill. This man + had an appreciation of the position he had won. This man stood for English + literature. Within a wide estimate of public opinion, and within that + immense estimate of him that was his own, this man stood for literature. + In a manner worthy of his proud standing this man comported himself. The + talents that were his belonged to the nation, and very freely he gave them + to the people. This man did not deny himself to the crowd as another might + have denied himself. Of him it never could be said that he missed + opportunity to let the public feed upon him. This man made such + opportunities. Where excitement was, there this man, pausing between his + novels, would step in. If a murder-trial had the public attention this man + would write upon that trial; if interest were fixed upon a trade dispute + this man would by some means draw that interest upon himself. Nothing was + too small for this man. Walking the public places he did not shrink from + recognition; he gladly permitted it. Not once but many times, coming upon + a stranger reading one of his novels, he had announced himself; + autographed the copy. This man's character was wholly in keeping with his + gifts. + </p> + <p> + Yet beautifully he could preserve the dignity that was his right. + Preserving it now, he gave his hand to Bill but did not move his position. + </p> + <p> + “It is a great pleasure to me to meet you, sir,” Bill told him. + </p> + <p> + “You have only lately joined the ranks of journalism, Mr. Bitt tells me,” + Mr. Vivian Howard graciously replied. “It is the stepping-stone to + literature. Never forget that. Never lose sight of that. I shall watch + your career with the greatest interest.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bitt broke in a trifle impatiently: “Well, well, we must keep to + business just now. Mr. Howard will kindly give us a daily interview, + Wyvern, until the feuilleton starts, or until the cat is found. You'd + better—” + </p> + <p> + Bill took a pace back; faced them both. “No need,” he cried in bursting + words. “The cat is found!” + </p> + <p> + The cigarette dropped from Mr. Vivian Howard's lip to his waistcoat. He + brushed at it violently; burnt his fingers; brushed again; swore with a + ferocity that would have astonished his admirers; sprang to his feet amid + a little shower of sparks and cloud of ash. “Found!” he exclaimed; jabbed + a burnt finger in his mouth and thickly repeated, “Found!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bitt simultaneously rose. “Found?” cried Mr. Bitt. “What the—” + </p> + <p> + “I have the finder here,” Bill told them; stepped to the door. + </p> + <p> + On legs that shook my agitated George advanced. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vivian Howard drew forth his suffering finger with a loud pop; made + three hasty strides to George; took the cat. “Abishag!” he cried in + ecstasy, “Abishag!” + </p> + <p> + In very gloomy tones Mr. Bitt announced that he was bust. “Well, I'm + bust!” he said. “I'm bust. It <i>is</i> your cat, eh?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vivian Howard nodded the head he was bending over his Abishag. + </p> + <p> + Bill signalled to George a swift wink. George drew a handkerchief; wiped + from his face the beaded agony. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bitt dropped heavily into his seat. “Of course I'm very glad, Mr. + Howard,” he announced stonily. “<i>Very</i> glad. At the same time—at + the same <i>time</i>—” He turned upon George with a note that was + almost savage. “You, sir!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + George started painfully. + </p> + <p> + “How the—How did you come to find this cat?” + </p> + <p> + George forced his pocket handkerchief into his trousers pocket; rammed it + down; cleared his throat; ran a finger round the inside of his collar; + cleared again; said nothing. + </p> + <p> + Bill hurried to the rescue. “Like this, sir. Let me tell you. This + gentleman was at Paltley Hill, a place on the South-Western. He used to + live there. He found the cat in a deserted kind of hut, took charge of it. + I happened to meet him and brought him along. By Jove, sir, only published + this morning and found within a few hours! It's pretty good, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bitt spoke with great disgust. “Pretty <i>good!</i>” he cried + bitterly. “Pretty <i>good!</i>” He had no fit words in which to express + his feeling. “Kindly step in there a moment,” he addressed George. + </p> + <p> + George trembled into the adjoining room indicated; closed the door. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bitt turned to Mr. Vivian Howard. “It will always be a great pleasure + to me,” he told the great novelist, “to think that the <i>Daily</i> was + the means of restoring your cat.” + </p> + <p> + “I never shall forget it,” Mr. Vivian Howard assured him. The famous + author placed himself upon the couch, caressed Abishag the Shunamite upon + his lap. “Never shall forget it. It was more than good of you, Mr. Bitt, + to take up the matter and offer so handsome a reward. It was + public-spirited.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bitt's deprecatory little laugh had a rueful note. + </p> + <p> + He nerved himself to step upon the delicate ground that lay between him + and his purpose. This man had not known Mr. Vivian Howard sufficiently + long to put to him directly that the reward was offered, and gladly agreed + to by Mr. Howard, for purposes of respective self-advertisement agreeable + at once to the paper and to the man who stood for English literature. He + nerved himself: + </p> + <p> + “When you say public-spirited, Mr. Howard, you use the right term. I do + not attempt to deny that I fully appreciated that this reward for your + cat, and the interview you agreed to give us, would greatly benefit our + paper. Why should I deny it? We editors must be business men first, + nowadays; journalists afterwards. But I do ask you to believe me, Mr. + Howard, that in offering this reward, in arousing this interest, I had in + view also a matter that has been my aim since I was at College.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bitt's college was Rosa Glen College, 156 Farmer Road, Peckham; but he + preferred the briefer designation. + </p> + <p> + “The aim,” he continued, gathering courage as he detected in Mr. Vivian + Howard's face a look which seemed to show that the famous author was + advancing upon the delicate ground to meet him, “the aim of attracting the + people to good literature.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vivian Howard, as standing for that literature, took the implied + compliment with a bow. “I congratulate you, Mr. Bitt.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, the <i>Daily</i> is young,” Mr. Bitt earnestly continued. “The <i>Daily</i> + has yet to make its way. If your 'Amy Martin' starts in normal + circumstances a week hence, it will mean that this contribution to our + highest literature will fall only to a comparatively small circle of + people. But if—but if, as I had hoped, we had morning by morning + attracted more and more readers by the great interest taken in your loss, + 'Amy Martin' would then have introduced our best fiction to a public twice + or thrice as large as our present circulation represents.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean—?” the great author inquired. + </p> + <p> + “I mean,” Mr. Bitt told him, “that for this reason I cannot but regret + that the excitement aroused should disappear with our issue of to-morrow. + I mean, Mr. Howard, that for the reason I have named I do think it is + almost our <i>duty</i>—our <i>duty</i>, for the reason I have named—to + conceal the cat's recovery for—er—for a day or so.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bitt blew his nose violently to conceal his agitation. This man was + now in the precise centre of the delicate ground; was in considerable fear + that it might open and swallow him. + </p> + <p> + But Mr. Vivian Howard's reply made that ground of rock-like solidity. + </p> + <p> + “As you put the matter, Mr. Bitt, I must say I agree. It would be false + modesty on my part to pretend I do not recognise the worth of 'Amy + Martin,' and the desirability of introducing it as widely as possible. + Certainly that could best have been accomplished by Abishag not having + been recovered so soon. But as it is—I do not see what can be done. + You do not, of course, suggest deliberate deception of the public?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly <i>not!</i>” cried Mr. Bitt with virtuous warmth. Since this + was precisely what he did suggest and most earnestly desired, he repeated + his denial: “Certainly <i>not</i>! At the same time—” + </p> + <p> + “One moment,” Mr. Vivian Howard interrupted. “This cat was obviously + stolen by someone and placed in the hut where it was found. Very well. We + prosecute. We prosecute, and I could give you every morning my views on + the guilt or otherwise—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bitt shook his head. “I had thought of that. It won't do. It won't do, + Mr. Howard. For one thing, a rigorous prosecution and sentence might + create bad feeling against the paper. You have no idea how curious the + public is in that way. For another, you, as the injured party, ought not + to comment; and certainly I could not publish your views. The matter would + be <i>sub judice</i> directly arrest was made; and I once got into very + serious trouble over a <i>sub judice</i> matter—very serious trouble + indeed. I shall not touch the law, Mr. Howard. It is unwise. At the same + time, I think the thief should be made to suffer—be given a thorough + fright. Now, if we inform the public that practically our Special + Commissioner has his hand on the cat—which will be perfectly true—and + is almost certain as to the identity of the thief—if we keep this up + for the few days necessary for the publication of those magnificent + articles of yours on 'What my Loss means to Me,' we shall be accomplishing + three excellent objects. We shall be terrifying an evil-doer—we may + take it for granted he reads the <i>Daily</i>; we shall be giving the + public those articles which most certainly ought not to be lost to + literature; and we shall be widening the sphere of influence of 'Amy + Martin.'” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vivian Howard did not hesitate. “It is impossible to override your + arguments, Mr. Bitt. I think we shall be doing <i>right</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bitt concealed his immense joy. “I am convinced of it, Mr. Howard,” he + said. “<i>Convinced</i>. The modern editor and the man of letters of your + standing have enormous responsibilities.” + </p> + <p> + Impelled by the virtuous public duty they were performing, the two men + silently grasped hands. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. + </h2> + <h3> + A Perfectly Splendid Chapter. + </h3> + <p> + Mr. Bitt turned to Bill; indicated the door behind which my poor George + was wrestling in prayer. “The only difficulty is with that chap in there. + He knows the cat is found! How can we—” + </p> + <p> + “If you will leave that to me, sir,” Bill told him, “I think I can arrange + it without difficulty.” + </p> + <p> + “Or danger?” added Mr. Vivian Howard, who, standing for English + literature, would not lightly imperil his integrity. + </p> + <p> + “Or the least danger,” Bill affirmed. “He's a kind of friend of mine—did + I mention that, sir? I'll fix it up in a minute.” + </p> + <p> + He stepped briskly to George; closed the door behind him. + </p> + <p> + George said faintly: “Say it quick, Bill. Quick.” + </p> + <p> + “You've got it, old man. Got it.” + </p> + <p> + George rose to his feet; stretched his arms aloft; wildly waved them. The + tremendous shout for which he opened his mouth was stayed upon his lips by + Bill's warning finger. He hurled himself on a couch; rolled in ecstasy. + </p> + <p> + Rapidly Bill outlined the proposals. Then he struck a heavy hand upon + George's shoulder. “And I've got it too!” he cried in an exultant whisper. + “I've got it too! I've got Margaret!” + </p> + <p> + “Margaret! However—?” + </p> + <p> + “Like this. Plain as a fiddle-stick. To-morrow, when we get out this story + about practically having our hand on the thief, I shall go bang down to + Marrapit with the paper and tell him I know it was Mrs. Major who took the + cat. You can imagine the state that'll put 'em both in. Then—then, + my boy, I shall say 'Let Margy and me carry on and fix it up forthwith, + and I'll promise Mrs. Major shall never hear a word more about the + matter.' He'll agree like a shot. The chief's not going to prosecute, you + see; so neither Mrs. Major nor you ever will hear a word more. George, + we've done it! Done it! You've got your Mary and I've got my Margy!” + </p> + <p> + With swelling bosoms, staring eyes, upon this tremendous happening the two + young men clasped hands; stood heavily breathing. These men were glimpsing + heaven. + </p> + <p> + When they unlocked, George said: “There's one thing, Bill. Go in and tell + that precious pair they can hold over the discovery till they please and + that I shall never breathe a word. But tell 'em this: I don't agree unless + I have my cheque right away.” + </p> + <p> + Bill advised no stipulations. + </p> + <p> + George stood firm: “I don't care a snap, Bill. I will have it now. I've + been badgered about quite enough. I want to feel safe. I'll either lose it + all or have it all. No more uncertainty. Anything might happen during the + week, for all I know.” + </p> + <p> + Bill took the message. + </p> + <p> + Upon immediate payment Mr. Bitt at first stuck. “He might turn back on us, + or start blackmailing us. He may have stolen the cat himself for all we + know.” + </p> + <p> + “All the more likely, in that case, to keep his mouth shut,” commented Mr. + Vivian Howard. Despite he stood for literature, this man had strong + business instincts. + </p> + <p> + Bill urged compliance. He knew this finder of the cat; would speak for him + as for himself. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bitt put a quill into his inkstand; took George's name; wrote a slip; + handed it to Bill. “Take that to the cashier, Wyvern. He'll give you the + cheque. Clear your friend out. Eh? No—no need for me to see him + again. Of course you must get his story of how he found the cat, to use + when the 'What my Loss means to Me' articles run out. Then come back and + we'll fix up to-morrow's account.” + </p> + <p> + A cabman drove to St. Peter's Hospital a seemingly insane young man, who + bounded into the cab with a piece of paper in his hand; who sang and + rattled his heels upon the foot-board, shouted to passers-by; who paid + with two half-crowns; who bounded, paper still fluttering in hand, up the + steps of the Dean's entrance with a wild and tremendous whoop. + </p> + <p> + George had scarcely explained to the Dean an incoherent story of L500 won + through a newspaper competition, when the Mr. Lawrence, M.R.C.S., + L.R.C.P., whose practice was at Runnygate, arrived. + </p> + <p> + Informally the purchase was at once arranged; a further meeting settled. + George bolted to another cab; drove to Meath Street by way of the florist + near Victoria Station; took aboard an immense basket of flowers. + </p> + <p> + At the house he gathered the flowers beneath his arm; on the way upstairs + shifted them to his hands; flung wide the door. + </p> + <p> + His Mary, white, a tooth on a trembling lip, her pretty hands clasped, was + before him. In a great whirling shower he flung the blossoms about her; + then took her in his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Runnygate, Mary! Darling old girl, Runnygate!” + </p> + <p> + He kissed his Mary. + </p> + <p> + Last Shots from the Bridge. + </p> + <p> + If you had patience for another peep from the bridge that I can build, you + might catch a glimpse or so. + </p> + <p> + Bending over you might see Bill seated at the editor's table of the + editor's room of a monstrously successful monthly magazine of most + monstrous fiction that Mr. Bitt's directors have started; Margaret, that + sentimental young woman, by her husband's side is correcting the proofs of + a poem signed “Margaret Wyvern.” It is of the most exquisite melancholy. + </p> + <p> + Bending over you might see George upon one of the summer evenings when, + his duties through, he is taking his Mary for a drive in the country + behind that rising seaside resort Runnygate. They are plunging along in a + tremendous dogcart drawn by an immense horse. George is fully occupied + with his steed; Mary, peeping at constant intervals through the veil that + hides the clear blue eyes and the ridiculous little turned-up nose of her + baby, at every corner says: “Oh, George! Georgie, do be careful! We were + on <i>one</i> wheel then, I <i>know</i> we were!” But along the level the + wind riots at her pretty curls as she sits up very straight and very + proud, smiling at this splendid fellow beside her. + </p> + <p> + Bending over you might see the garden of Herons' Holt, Mr. Fletcher + leading from the house the fat white pony and tubby wide car which Mrs. + Marrapit, formerly Mrs. Major, has prevailed upon her husband to buy. The + pony has all the docile qualities of a blind sheep, but Mr. Fletcher is in + great terror of it. When, while being groomed, it suddenly lifts its head, + Mr. Fletcher drops his curry-comb and retires from the stall at great + speed. “It's 'ard,” says Mr. Fletcher—“damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I + am; not a 'orse-breaker.” + </p> + <h3> + THE END. + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Once Aboard The Lugger, by +Arthur Stuart-Menteth Hutchinson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ONCE ABOARD THE LUGGER *** + +***** This file should be named 6410-h.htm or 6410-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/6/4/1/6410/ + + +Text file produced by Skip Doughty, Charles Aldarondo and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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